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The Visionary

Canto III. By Lady E. Stuart Wortley

Stuart-Wortley, Emmeline (1806-1855)

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THE VISIONARY.

III.

CANTO III.

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THE VISIONARY.

CANTO III.

TO THE MARCHIONESS OF HASTINGS This Work IS INSCRIBED, BY HER AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, THE AUTHORESS.

Dedicatory Lines TO THE MARCHIONESS OF HASTINGS.

I

Know'st thou the Passion of the Poet's Dreams!—
When, like to waves on waves, that surging roll,
Thoughts after thoughts, in strong and sweeping streams,
Come brightly billowing o'er the enraptured Soul?

II

Yea!—thou hast known it, and shalt know it still!
Still shalt thou well that purest passion prove;
Thine—the Seraphic portion of the Skill!—
The Soul of Music—and the Heart of Love!

PART I.

I

The Visionary told his own wild tale
Before; but silent now his mournful tongue,
Though he hath travelled far o'er and vale,
And o'er proud prospects famed in story hung,
And lingered ruins of the past among,
And hailed new climates, customs, men, and lands,
His heart is heavy, and his harp unstrung:
Yet would I trace, though idly as on sands,
Some record of him here, who lorn and lonely stands.

II

He was a son of sorrow, and his soul
Subject to her, through every change remained:
Round him fresh mountains rise, strange billows roll!—
It still retaineth as it hath retained
Her solemn stamp; 'twas all too deep engrained
Through every part to vanish, though 'tis true
It varied oft, as heart and sense enchained
By admiration, caught each changeful hue
Of Nature's beauty then, that pierced his spirit through.

III

Yes! Sorrow vanished not, but varied still,
With nature's altering aspects altered hers!
And grew herself most beautiful; while hill,
And plain, and sea, (where one Great Spirit stirs,
One feeling lives,) with truth that never errs,
Pressed all their glories on the soul, where she
Reigned an omnipotent crowned Shadow—firs
Of the echoing wood, waves of the sweeping sea,
Sheaves of the plain with her grew one great harmony.

IV

She rode abroad on all the Winds of Heaven,
Rode on the whirlwind—floated on the breeze!—
Down with the billows dashed, or torrents driven,
Each shape and semblance she was skilled to seize!—
The skyward voice of many clustering trees
Spoke but her language, when to him they spoke,
That weary man, whom nothing well could please,
And yet whose pain a different aspect took,
From changing Scenes, until, at times, scarce galled its yoke!

V

His Sorrow varied ever; now it seemed
In breathlessness of adoration raised
Unto the heights above, and now it dreamed
All haunted Melancholy's dreams, and gazed
On fair Earth's features, troubled and amazed,
And now 'twas all one poetry, and shed
Redoubled beauty round, and hailed and praised
The Scenes it hallowed with an angel's tread,
For such oft seemed its own, when peace was round it spread!

VI

But it was Sorrow still, and Sorrow all,
Judge it by Joy, and it had been Despair!—
He knew it well, yet shrunk not from its thrall,
Whose heart was its lone shrine—its desert lair,
The struggle was long past, and all was there
Resigned unto the worst; the howling waste
Need fear no Winter—its wild rage can dare;
The barkless, branchless tree, no longer graced
By clustering leaves, dreads not the storm's fierce headlong haste.

VII

The Visionary wandered far and long,
To leave no memory of his woe behind,
At times, in tones sad as the Swan's last song,
His words flowed forth, but flowed not to his kind,
But still to the elements, the stars enshrined
In the far stillness of the quiet sky!—
Ere the last blow was struck, which taught his mind
The peace of hopelessness, with moan and sigh,
Twas thus he wreaked on speech his Spirit's agony.

VIII

“Suspense! thou gloomy and tremendous Power,
How with thy burning hand thou seizest upon
The arm of Destiny in dreadful hour,
Ere yet the impending, threatening deed is done,
Ere the fierce dart its deadly race hath run;
But not to blunt or launch aside that dart,
Thou send'st a thousand to prepare for one!—
Corroding deeply in the cankered heart,
To make the Soul rehearse all sufferings is thy part!

IX

“Suspense! ere yet the great creative word
Streamed into thousand worlds, yet veiled beneath
The weight of utter darkness unexplored
By Life or Thought, and in their Shell and Sheath
Lay all things, and the Elements no breath
Had brightly parted—thou wer't Chaos—thou,
And 'twixt two worlds of Being thou art Death!
Thou o'er fallen Spirits dragg'st thy fiery plough,
And thou art all that is, dark Evil's worst even now.

X

“Now dost thou rack my Soul with thy fierce throes,
There thou art Chaos too!—there Death thou art;
What seems Despair compared with thee? repose!—
A calm and frozen slumber of the heart!
With sickening agony I swoon—to start
To life again, when something like a hope
(A halcyon-harpy 'tis) doth come to part
The darkness for a moment—then must droop
With expectations crushed—more narrowed in their scope!

XI

“Suspense! when thou art over I may rest,
As on a bed of roses, on my rack!
Close to my soul my Grief shall then be press'd,
Felt, deeply felt; but though the heart-strings crack
With pain, and Life and Death alike look black,
Nothing can equal thy fierce hour, when forth
The soul goes, trembling on a fearful track,
To imagine every ill and grief on Earth,
And to expect them all, in darkness and in dearth.”

XII

So mused, so mourned, so maddened he, until
The pangs of thought and feeling grew too deep,
And his wrung spirit all too faint and chill:
Then came a sombre stillness, like a Sleep,
Over his Soul, and that did silence keep
Unto itself, at length, and sought no more
To interpret into thought that cloud-like heap
Of mixed sensations, heavier than before,
For thought a language is, which must be studied o'er.

XIII

Thoughts the Soul's many-sided Mirrors are,
As words even prove, and are confessed their own;
Without their aid its never-ceasing war
Were through confusion's darkness glimpsed alone;
By them its secrets to itself are shown,
By them glassed back—more—multiplied and made
A thousand-fold more torturing, yet our own,
We first must make our griefs, and mark displayed,
Ere resignation's power and reason's can bring aid!

XIV

Suspense at length was over, and he knew,
Or deemed he knew, the worst he had to bear;
Ev'n there we do deceive ourselves, as through
Hope's fairest periods, boundless is its care,
As infinite the Soul, all boundless there,
Can know no limit, save 'tis that of Life,
But 'tis by mercy granted to Despair,
This one delusion still to shape, 'mid strife
Or stupor thus, and deem the hour with all harms rife!

XV

Alas! alas! it is not so! and none
Can measure misery, or the unbounded power
His soul hath still to suffer, ere is won
Its goal of peace, and life hath ceased to lower
Around its path; the first fresh opening hour
Of our first grief, that hour of flooding tears,
To us then seems supreme in Grief's dark dower,
Compare it with the hours of later years,
Stern, torrid, tearless all, like peace it then appears.

XVI

Life! thou'rt a howling Wilderness indeed,
Savage and stormy in thy barrenness;
Here souls must pine, and feeling bosoms bleed,
With never-soothed regret and vain distress;
Yet on upon the joyless march we press,
Eager to run through all our hateful share
Of bitter sufferings—deeming them no less,
Ere they draw near, than rich delights and rare,
Till comes that Future close, and its best gifts are air!

XVII

Oh! what a Fate is ours—to watch the wane
Of all things dear and lovely, day by day;
And then with heavier, and as hopeless pain,
Our own hearts' ruin, our own mind's decay,
All broken by long suffering and dismay.
Oh! what a fate, and who is spared from this?
None that have ever worn the weed of clay,
Or looked on Earth for aught resembling bliss,
None, none that mortal are, or ere shall be, I wiss.

XVIII

And there are feelings, fraught with wildest woe,
That with their terrible and torturing power
Break down the Soul for ever—it may show
Not of its ruin, but doth still devour
That killing grief, the heart, condemned to cower
Before it, helpless as the attracted bird,
Which finds the Snake in its own nest's dear bower,
Called by Grief's voice it too acutely heard,
And learned its whole wild woe without one lessoning word

XIX

The citadel may yet without look strong,
Though Famine may be busy, with its hosts,
Those spectral bands that scanty dying throng,
Seeming most like to perished Warriors' ghosts.
The cliffs may yet look lofty on rude coasts,
Though worn away by Ocean at their base—
Full oft the hollow tree yet greenly boasts
Of foliage, bright as summer, nor a trace
Of that decay reveals, which yet destroys apace.

XX

Suspense and Hope and Fear were now past o'er,
And he collected his whole Soul to bear,
Driving all feelings back to the inmost core
Of the sealed heart, which never more may share
A sweet emotion, or a gentle care,
Parched to its very ground, and sternly drained
Of its own gushing springs, by one despair,
His thoughts were schooled and disciplined and trained,
And ill they bore their thrall, like mountain-eagles chained!

XXI

And what a life was this to one whose mind
Had preyed on quick excitement evermore,
Whose thoughts had left this weary world behind,
Launched on the living Sea that hath no shore;
Whose waves are Worlds, the Firmaments whose floor,
Whose deeps are heights, beyond what sense may reach,
And now imprisoned with their prisoned store
Of sumptuous knowledge, thus! e'en all and each—
Oh! bitter were his words, when his Soul glanced in speech!

XXII

“Is there a pang too much, which heart and brain,
Nor life nor sense, howe'er o'erwrought, can bear,
A pang of an intolerable Pain?—
(No lengthening, lingering, vital-gnawing care,)
Which in one moment should, with one despair,
Crush heart and being into Death's cold sleep,
Blotting the light out, choking up the air,
Till ceaseth pulse to beat, and eye to weep,
Oh! for that pang too much, my Soul in peace to steep!

XXIII

“Oh! my past self! oh! my lost life and love!
What was I once? a being fearing nought,
Feeling at least as free as Souls above;
What am I? answer!—answer to my Thought,
Answer mine Agony! Oh! ye who wrought
This work of ruin for me, speak, and start
Before me by remorse or Vengeance, brought
To witness to your crime, ere yet I part,
Reply to my Despair!—Answer my Soul and Heart!

XXIV

“Blot out one moment from thy life, my Soul,
Though rather 'twas thy death—that hideous pang,
Which throbbed and tortured thro' the envenomed whole;
'Twas then the knoll of all my deep hopes rang,
And every tried support on which might hang
My fainting spirits, then gave way beneath
The crush of agony.—The cankering fang
Of disappointment! what is pulse and breath—
Blot from thy life, my Soul, that memory of thy death!

XXV

“Blaze, ye bright Stars! fair wonders of the night,
I look not on ye—nor aspire to know
The secrets of the mysteries of your might,
One world is sure enough for human woe;
One world enough, e'en this dark sphere below,
Wherein to weep, toil, suffer, groan, and die,
I am not dazzled by your glorious show,
Could we behold more near your brilliancy,
Perchance we there might death and stern despair descry!

XXVI

“Heaven's self is beautiful, because 'tis far
The Visible and Vaulted Heaven above!—
Those tints that all of purple glory are,
Those precious tints our eyes so deeply love,
E'en thus adorned, with glowing beauty prove!
Distance, the rolling Stars with splendour crowns,
Worlds like our own in their Sun-path they move,
Nor win more light than this our cold World owns,
While round them, haply too, the cloud of gloom oft frowns!

XXVII

“Still farthest things seem fairest evermore,
And lost things loveliest, for to these we lend,
The Soul's immortal beauty running o'er—
Its great mysterious beauty without end,
Unmeet indeed with aught of Earth to blend,
And thence doth spring confusion, strange and deep,
Which ever doth to gloom and sorrow tend,
Its Heavenly Secrets the exiled Soul should keep,
Till Life's chill paths are climbed, the shadowy and the steep.

XXVIII

“I move amid the many—lost and lone!
Fain to adopt their feeling and their thought,
Full often, for distraction are my own—
And with unutterable suff'ring fraught—
Their aspect and their action may be taught;
But, oh! the Heart! a dull, slow scholar 'tis—
And still 'tis least acquired what most is sought;
If Life hath one worst woe—'tis surely this—
Bankrupts ourselves, to count the sum of others' bliss.

XXIX

“To see them clasp their treasures to their Soul,
In the exultation of possession's pride,
And laden thus—yet lightly seek the goal,
Hope leading on—Contentment at their side;
And then contrast with theirs our doom, allied
With every bitterness and grief and pain;
Oh! this is mournful! mournful!—thou hast tried
This heaviness, my Soul, and shalt again,
If thus thou bend'st beneath one thought's continual reign!

XXX

“Yet, Heart of mine, thou hast thy treasures too!—
But these are dust and ashes!—it is well!
When the pale Angel smites thy cold core through,
And finds therein prepared an icy cell
Most meet for him, not then, as Sages tell,
Shall he rob thee of thy dear riches!—No!
Others must leave their wealth, and go to dwell
Where never more their hoards to them shall flow;
Thy treasures—ashes—dust—shall still be thine below!

XXXI

“Ashes and dust thy treasures are, and they
Death and the Grave shall leave thee to enjoy!
These are the things that need not fear decay,
Nor rust nor robbery—nothing shall destroy!—
The cup thou drain'st is one without alloy;
Grief, unmixed grief, and not a hope of aught
But her continuance; Oh! my Heart! upbuoy
Thyself with this consoling, cheering thought,
Thou hast at least to boast these treasures—free, unbought!

XXXII

“Hear me! though worlds divide—though mountains rise
Between us, and unbounded Oceans roll,
Hear me!—thy Soul shall shudder to my Sighs—
As doth the Earth to the Earthquake's dire controul,
In ruinous hours of doom, when as a scroll—
Half-withered seems the Sky to frown above;
Thine shall reply unto my living Soul!—
Hear me!—I seek not now thy heart to move,
But still my Soul will speak—and all its Life is—Love!

XXXIII

“Who talketh of the Agony of Death?
I say it is the Agony of Life!—
We pant on sufferingly from breath to breath,
With an unsoothed and an unceasing strife,
And every moment with some pang is rife,
Long agony of Life!—until at last
The queller cometh—with his healing knife,
That lops the canker off—and all is past,—
In peace we sink to sleep, with darkness round us cast!

XXXIV

“Who tells me of the bitterness of Death?
Brim me his cup, up to the fullest—fill,
Fill high, with fear and fate!—and be beneath
Ashes and Wormwood too—the dregs be still
More bitter than the brim, let all his ill
Foam in the bowl—And who shall tell me then
'Tis bitter as the bitterness—or chill
As the icy coldness of dark life—to men
That die, one drop of Peace—one drop must flow again!

XXXV

“Take off this mortal madness from my brain,
This crushing burthen from mine aching heart;
Deliver me from Life, and all its pain,
Or let me dwell in peace, or, freed, depart.—
Away, ye Visions that for ever start
Before my wearied and my wakeful eye;
Away for ever; I myself would dart
Into the gloom of death with ye, and fly
From Feeling's thousand fangs, and Sorrow's scorching sigh!”

XXXVI

Then paused he in the agony of thought,
With eye now fixed, now wandering—brow where stood
The torture-drops of pain, that inly wrought,
And white lips withered from their flush of blood;
Long, long would he thus miserably brood
O'er dreams of death and dictates of despair,
Till on the sudden changed his Suffering's mood,
Though still a world of Suffering darkened there—
And all his kneeling Soul out-poured itself in Prayer!

XXXVII

“Forgive me, oh! forgive me, for I need
Forgiveness—First and Holiest! and I feel
Mine every thought, and look, and word, and deed,
Are crimes, which I should blush still to reveal,
And tremble to remember.—Thou canst heal!—
Back to thy fold, canst thou the stray one win—
Canst countless blessings to the unworthy deal,
Who doth but evil know, without—within—
Mid Sins and Sinners walk—himself a walking sin!

XXXVIII

“Forgive mine whole Existence, vain as brief!
All that I am, or have been, or shall be!—
What but rebellion is my groaning grief?—
What but presumption, my proud hopes and free?
My memory is forgetfulness of thee!—
My will, but opposition unto thine,
My best of zeal is but impiety;
How dare I offer thee what is not mine,
My Soul—my life—my time—thy wealth and works divine.

XXXIX

“Each breath I draw but plunges me more deep
Into the pit of guilt—the abyss of sin;
Still I offend thee, waking or asleep;
My very dreams doth busy memory spin,
Out of the buried wickedness within;
Of old dead thoughts that even in dying leave
A token of their treasons—all akin
To evil as they are—canst thou receive
Those that with these have sprung, which made thee, Holiest! grieve?

XL

“Forgive me every moment that I live!—
Forgive me every thought I dare to think—
Mine every sense—all slaves to sin, forgive;
Mine every faculty, that in the sink
Of sin lies drowned—Life's every rusted link,
And all the Spirit's poisoned Springs do thou,
Pardon!—Oh! Prince of Pardon! from the brink
Snatch the bewildered! Lord of Love! and bow
To hear the broken prayer he fain would form even now.”

XLI

'Twere well had he for ever thus remained,
But still his restless Soul rebelled again—
(Though still some worthier impress it retained,)
But he was maddened by the mortal pain,
Which never ceased to throb through heart and brain,
And in his passion-phrensy he forgot
His better resolutions, and the chain
That bound him to his hard and hopeless lot,
Bound up his burning thoughts—that once in freedom shot.

XLII

He traversed distant lands, by one hope led,
And sought Horizons new, and Heavens unknown;
He would forget, in fresh Scenes round him spread,
The grief he wore within—the bird hath flown
In vain, when the arrow hath unerring gone
Deep in his breast; in vain the hunted hart
Hath gained the coverts and the springs—his own
When the fierce panting death doth shivering dart
Through all his frame, and he did vainly thus depart!

XLIII

The Rhine's fair waves the dreary wanderer bore,
Where Nature wipes the tears from weary eyes,
For her rich shrine seems built upon its shore,
Where her fond Pilgrims well may pause, and prize
Her glories and her wonders—Summer's skies
Were spread above the Scene, when he beheld
Its beauty with a passion of surprise,
That half the anguish of his feelings quelled,
And as in other days, his heart with triumph swelled.

XLIV

Bold Drachenfels entranced—a heaven-kissed hill,
And Ehrenbreitstein, with its fortressed wall
Amazed with strength, and green, and lone, and still
The old cloistral Nonnenwerder's time-changed hall
Touched his Soul's sympathies and feelings all,
With many another scene, o'er which hath flown
Time's wing, the o'ershadowing canopy—then pall
Of all on Earth, where all things seem his own,
Though other masters claim, and these as theirs are known!

XLV

Pale Nonnenwerder's tale of love and grief
Most grew upon his Soul, till wrung with care
His heart shrunk from his thoughts; he sought relief
From these in trembling terror, nor might dare
To dwell on that old legend of despair;
He fled in fear, a coward of the heart,
And who is not at times a coward there?
There throb the pangs that never more depart
And there the ruin spreads that mocks all the aid of art.

XLVI

Death seemed to him not more to have destroyed
Their deep affections than his own were crushed:
The funeral vault were not a gloomier void
Than this fair world to him—yet no tears gushed
From eyes that wept, while Hope still faintly flushed
The pathway, but 'twas gone, and past, and done,
And feeling in his soul was chilled or hushed
Living and dying on itself alone
His spirit was a waste, his heart a wreck had grown.

XLVII

He gazed and sighed:—had he not loved, had he
Not borne a mighty sufferance for his share,
To love given up his Soul's infinity,
Though Death and Madness entered with him there?
And yet, though hopeless, he ne'er named despair,
That dark delicious anguish, but too true,
Still worshipped one, who caused him all his care,
And worshipped that wild love unbounded too,
And so he loved and mourned, with feelings known to few

XLVIII

Alas! his loved and cherished was not near;
Wherefore was he for evermore alone!
The dearest eyes that ever yet were dear
Coldly on his, all drowned in tears, had shone.
Wherefore was he for evermore undone!
Nor heart, nor hope were his, nor wish nor will,
And other sufferings crowded in, and groan
By groan was followed, though more faintly still:—
But sorrow such as his is past all painting's skill.

XLIX

Why do we look back to the lost, lost Past?
The Future is the new world, opening out
Before our troubled tearful gaze, recast
Our ruined hopes must be, though more of doubt
And fear may mingle there, to shed about
The darkness of dismay.—Oh! to forget,
This were a boon too blessed, and would scout
The foul fiends from their haunts:—not yet, not yet
Can we know rest or peace—wait till Life's Sun is set.

L

Then shall we rest in that true place of peace,
Where the Heart dwells, a sleeper calm and still;
For the first time its troubled tremours cease,
When Death exerts o'er this his mighty skill,
And leaves it in a moment hush'd and chill!
Come, comfortable nurse! and kiss the brows
That ache with agony, and softly fill
The cup of consolation and repose,
And breathe the soul away—returned to whence it rose!

LI

Should not the weary rest—the wounded die,
Blot out from Life a Suffering, and a Care?
For such is all his being who doth fly
To seek for shelter and its end, even there,
In the cold grave, which Earth doth still prepare
For all her sufferers, many these are found,
But there is room for all—and all may share
The silence and the shadow; in the ground
All reign in their repose, as each were chief and crowned.

LII

Kings of the grave are all, and of its gloom,
Kings of the world of shadows, lo! they reign!
Many, these shroud-stoled monarchs of the tomb;
But each is single, and shall so remain
Till Earth delivers up her dead again.
Lords of the darkness—Lieges of the dust,
They toil not, stir not, but the mount and plain
Around them burst to beauty, to their trust
For ever true, while flowers the face of Earth encrust.

LIII

The face of Earth that is above them spread,
Their overhanging Firmament, sublime!
That surface-fretted roof that guards their bed,
Aye! a starred firmament, for dew-dropped prime,
Sees all the flowers that laughing gild the clime,
Set with the gems of morning thick and close!
The unerring Seasons in the train of Time
Act their great parts around, while their repose
Is undisturbed by aught—unchecked by friends or foes.

LIV

Earth is their mighty chariot, round the sun
In solemn state she bears her silent dead;
Their labour with their life is past and done,
But yet unconsciously one track they tread,
Along one wond'rous pathway are they led,
And with ten thousand worlds of glory still
Run the great race, while sleep is o'er them shed—
And that proud course unvaryingly fulfil
Which the orbs of Heaven perform, and those changed ashes chill!

LV

The weary man then left the storied Rhine,
And its rich banks, with every beauty blest—
Left the fair stream to sing, and smile, and shine,
And pass'd on, with the arrow in his breast,
Along his troubled way, while East and West
To him seemed mournful, with a setting Sun!—
The setting sun of dearest hopes and best,
For ever lost and wasted and undone,
Ah! all had gathered been—concentered into one.

LVI

The West's broad oriflamme—the flashing East
To him of setting Suns both spoke and showed;
The light of soul still day by day decreased,
The light of life within all faintly glowed,
And scarce a ray illumed his onward road,
Yet forth he fared, and silent as the grave
He staggered on beneath his heavy load:
Now would he seek the eternal pang to brave,
And now indulgence deep from the unbent Soul would crave.

LVII

Full many a varying scene his notice claimed,
As Nature's self was knocking at his heart—
To her he opened; but the power untamed
Of tyrannous Grief not therefore did depart,
Nor did she soften down her thrilling smart,
But like to dear allies the twain became.
'Tis not in thronging streets and echoing mart
That fiercest burns the soul-consuming flame;
In Nature's open air it glows with desperate aim.

LVIII

The caution of concealment doth not there
Compress the spirit,—wounded and betrayed,
As with an iron grasp,—but all our care
Flows as it listeth forth, in sun and shade,
And grows with Memory's, Fancy's, Feeling's aid,
More powerful and strong than 'twas before;
(Yet sooth to say more drearily it weighed
On the checked mind when thus 'twas frozen o'er
By secresy and shame—confined i' the Heart's chilled core.

LIX

His listless steps the Visionary turned—
When the last blue gleam of the rolling Rhine
Had faded far, to where in sunset burned
The old towers imperial, various in design,
Of far-famed Frankfort, where a long proud line
Of Emperors were anointed, and with all
The pomp of sway invested at that shrine,
That old high altar which to the ardent call
Of Bernard, rang of yore, while echoed aisle and wall!

LX

There preached, there prayed, there praised he, rapt, inspired,
A saint of the Crusades, whose holy war
So long was waged, with fervent zeal untired,
When bright Religion gathered from afar
Her princely powers, and climbed the scythed car,
And called the sleeping thunder from the skies,
While from her forehead beamed Hope's morning star,
Though fires of death were lighted at her eyes,
And Terror stalked beside, and near did Ruin rise.

LXI

Religion called her chivalry around,
A proud monarchic chivalry, and dread,
Together by one hallowed compact bound,
And by one hope sustained, one feeling led:
Kings were her sword-bearers, the anointed head
Exchanged the jewelled crown for the high-plumed casque,
Their canopy the fluttering banners spread
Between them and the sky, and their great task,
Their only joy, whose end is all the meed they ask.

LXII

Behold her hosts—the children of all climes!
In tongues of many nations to the sky
They raised their shouts, in those inspired old times,
And Babel-like, pealed forth that battle-cry:—
How could they shrink with Heaven's self in their eye?
Saints, warriors, pilgrims, can they fear to fall?
Ev'n for a moment can they dread to die?
Eternity displays her treasures all,
The chivalry of Christ throng to Zeal's thrilling call.

LXIII

Religion, like the god of battle, leads—
The sun of Victory makes her broad shield bright,
Where the red heart of War most fiercely bleeds,
She flings a shadow there of living light,
For still she seems in presence and in sight—
Her trumpet, like the archangel's, deep and dread,
Sounds on and on, with long-resounding might,
Yet not to waken from their trance the dead—
Blown o'er that sacred tomb where rests no slumberer's head.

LXIV

That Holy Sepulchre, for which alone
Thousands departed from their hearths and homes—
For which the monarch left his state and throne,
And led the rugged life of him who roams
And all, the old honoured shrines, the ancestral tombs,
The birth-place and the death-place of their race,
To perish by a thousand hapless dooms,
Yet buoyed up by one hope, those paths to trace
Which lead to the awful grave—Death's three days' dwelling-place.

LXV

And this to free from Paynimrie's foul thrall,
This to deliver from the Infidel—
This proved the strong and strenuous hope of all;
Thrice blessed tomb—Grave where our God did dwell,
And since, the all-conquering grave of Death and Hell!
Well might they long thy hallowed dust to kiss;
Of the eternal waters thou'rt the well—
The gate of glory and of boundless bliss,—
The keystone of Heaven's Arch of new Creation, this!

LXVI

Lo! Palestine's fair soil with blood is dyed,
As blushing for her crime, while she doth drink
The life of thousands,—she, the Deicide
Among the nations, taught to cower and shrink,
Long tottering as it were on Ruin's brink,
And by the furnace-breath of battle fanned,
Like very suns the banners rise and sink,
Now 'tis the eclipse of terror o'er the land,
And now some light of hope gleams forth, clear, bright, and bland.

LXVII

But Victory soon must from those banners beam
Their colours like the rainbow's own allied,
While far and fair their floating splendours gleam,
The lion and the lily side by side;
Nor these alone, but others in their pride—
Of old armorial emblems, brave and bold—
Tremble, thou land, through thy fair regions wide,
Honoured for thy most holy spoils, behold,
And most abhorred art thou for thy foul deeds of old.

LXVIII

Such thoughts glanced through the Visionary's mind,
With varying hues through swiftly passing hours—
To contemplation's crowding dreams resigned,
Amidst these ancient walls and time-stained towers—
With memories of dead ages for their dowers.
The old Saracenic battle-days once more
Seemed crimsoning up the horizon—hurtling showers
Of javelins stirred the air, so still before,—
A sleet of spears, a storm of shouts, and all was o'er!

LXIX

The vision passed away,—the wild and strange,
With all its rich chivalrous pageantry,
And oriental pomp, in dazzling change
It melted like a cloud before his eye.
Was't strange that in the place of empiry,
The city of the crownings, he should cling
To those dark warlike phantasies, and fly
The memories proud of Kaiser and of King
With which these domes are rise—these very pavements ring.

LXX

I know not wherefore, well, but so it was,
And when these dreams fled far, he turned aside
His steps, and forth did silent pondering pass,
Leaving that city of imperial pride—
And sought fair Danube's winding stream and wide,
A path of flashing waters, leading far
The feet that fain would follow where they guide,
Beguiled by many a scene of watery war,
While shines the rising Sun as their proud beacon star!

LXXI

The Danube rolls along his winding way,
Rejoicing in his beauty and his might,
Reflecting back the long, long summer's day,
A paradise of waters to the sight,
Paved thick with quivering coruscations bright!
Shout to thy subject rivers—Danube fair!
Flow in the fulness of thy great delight,
Triumphant through thy many lands, and bear
One message proud to all—that shall thy gladness share.

LXXII

Monarch of many rivers! Danube fair!
Flow in thy freedom through thy many lands—
And Plenty's feast with joyous zeal prepare,
And mirror Nature's splendour as she stands
Thou ever rolling—following Heaven's commands,
As she is ever fixed in firm repose:
Oh! River, dost thou roll o'er golden sands—
Aye—still a molten mine each fair stream flows,
And glorious affluence gives where'er in joy it goes!

LXXIII

Wars and stern troubles and dark sweeping years
Thou noble River, broad and smooth and fair,
(Where now clear glassed this sunny heaven appears,)
Have written on thy waters no despair,
No hint of grief—no history of dull care;
“Peace” seems thy whisper to thy banks and meads,
And peace they whisper back to thee, and air
And earth around of how man groans and bleeds
Keep no sad trace—himself is lost like other weeds.

LXXIV

Be blessing on these waters sheen and fair,
Be blessing on the pure and plenteous tide,
Broad sweeping in its beamy triumph there,
Flinging its freshness forth on every side.
How do our feelings and our fancies glide
With gliding waves along! not rocked to rest
But lulled to peace, as stormy strife had died
By its own struggles in the lightened breast,
Striving 'gainst that soft calm by which we're newly blest.

LXXV

These sunny skies to bluer beauty start
Glassed on thy surface—river, fair and free!
Oh! mighty stream and famous that thou art,
Heroic and historic stream! where be
The shouting hosts that, fearless following thee,
Made thy proud banks the great highway of war,
Offering up orisons for victory!
Thick thundering by with steed and clattering car,
While trampling hoofs and clash of arms resounded far.

LXXVI

Great deeds and glorious bring'st thou back to mind,
Old haughty River; deeds of startling might,
Whose memory is with thy famed name entwined.
Thou hast beheld full many a gallant sight,
And many a dreadful one, when by the light
Of Battle's meteors on the vision flashed
The wild and ghastly horrors of the fight—
Red Massacre her hot hand fiercely washed
In thy deep wave, which on, unpausing heedless dashed.

LXXVII

Valour spurred forward, Glory beckoning on,
Till gleamed thy azure light through clouds of dust,
Raised by the march of armies, which the sun
Scarce pierced through, eddying in the whirling gust,
Did Pride then make that strength of hosts his trust?
Oh! in the hour of trial, darkening nigh,
Surely he found a holy cause and just,
Armed with the auspicious blessing of the sky,
Was stronger than all strength—a life that cannot die!

LXXVIII

By these proud shores imperial Charlemagne led,
With hope of many victories still inspired,
His countless forces, and his banners spread
Wide on the air, by their blood-crimson fired.
What gains, in sooth, by all he hath acquired,
The panting conqueror, while yet aught to gain
Is still uncompassed?—all he most desired
Palls in possession, and did nought remain
His soul should, like his sword, consume with rust's vile stain.

LXXIX

Here Attila in barbarous triumph went,
With all his savage followers, fierce and bold,
And Solyman, the most magnificent
Of Sultans!—here saw bright unrolled
His standards broad, with crescent-broidered fold,
That by their glorious moons e'en challenged fair
The sun above, in pomp of burning gold,
And shed their silvery brightness o'er the air!
Where are those leaders now—their hosts in nations where?

LXXX

These have relapsed to chaos and to dust,
Whilst thou, O River, still remain'st the same,
Kissed by the sunbeam, ruffled by the gust,
Nought, nought can win or turn thee from thine aim,
Thy course assured, true as the glitt'ring flame
Points upward, thou takest onward thy career;
Thou whom nor time, nor change, can wrong or tame,
Rolling against the morning bright and clear
All thy blue waves of joy, without a doubt or fear.

LXXXI

Thy march is 'gainst the morning—march thou on;
Roll thy clear tide toward the orient heavens of light,
Meet thou the chariot of the rising Sun—
He needs such mirror crystalline and bright!
Speed like a silvery arrow on thy flight,
A messenger from past and perished day,
Unto the coming dawn, whose young delight
Ne'er dreameth that it too must fleet away,
Like that resign its gifts, and yield up all its sway.

LXXXII

Roll on against the morning! her sweet star
Expects thy freshening tide for aye renewed!
Bear these bowed thoughts with thee far, wildly far,
That love mid light of setting suns to brood!
There let them be with young quick life imbued,
Until they smile away from them their gloom,
Forget the shock of sorrow stern and rude,
And start like spirits from the engulphing tomb,
And all their glow of hope and light of love resume!

LXXXIII

Roll on against the morning—shining roll,
Tell the new day the tales of grey old years;
How dost thou preach unto the heart and soul
With eloquence that touchingly endears!
Thy voice of waters is a voice of tears—
Death and its agony—life, life and all
Its countless crowd of woes, and pangs, and fears
Have known thy shores—but now deep echoes fall
Upon my very heart—true to a tenderer call.

LXXXIV

Here England sounded her proud challenge, here,
Displaying her dread strength to aid the right,
My Country spread with free and dauntless cheer
The unconquerable banners of her might;
Here did the genius of her power alight,
E'en hand in hand with glory, whose full glow
Shone o'er her arms intolerably bright.
Before nor since, in thy majestic flow,
Hast thou, old Danube, seen a nobler, statelier show.

LXXXV

Yes, Marlborough, England's Marlborough here displayed
The flag of thousand mightiest triumphs past,
And thousand thousand yet to come!—nor fade,
Like mere vain victories, that must sink at last
In dull oblivion, if, just Heaven, Thou hast
Not blessed the cause that bade the conqueror gird
The sword of slaughter on, and sound the blast,
And give the terrible, the fatal word,
Consigning men to death—unjudged, unblamed, unheard,

LXXXVI

If no good motive bared the avenging steel,
If black ambition only struck the blow,
And they who ruled, forgetting how to feel,
Doomed their unhappy brethren to worst woe,
The curse of Cain was branded on their brow,
The greatest conquerors were worst criminals,
Each death a murder—a proud sin the show,
The pomp of war—while unrepentant falls
The soldier, hurried hence, ere nature claims—Heaven calls.

LXXXVII

Here throned Napoleon on his dread career
Flew his fierce eagles at the Austrian sky,
And pressed his sounding march of fate and fear,
His march of earth-o'ershadowing victory.
Did Heaven look on then with the approving eye?
Was his a cause the Lord of Hosts to please;
To win the Almighty, the supreme Ally?
No! dark ambition all his soul did seize,
Therefore his fall at length was fixed in Heaven's decrees.

LXXXVIII

But when thy shores his shouting armies heard,
How Fortune hailed her haughty favourite then,
And smiled consenting as he gave the word,
And plunged his foes in Ruin's deepest den,
And made him shine the miracle of men.—
But when no more upon his helm she sits,
How human weakness claimed her own again!
Hope fails—though ne'er ambition intermits—
For him no more may rise his Sun of Austerlitz.

LXXXIX

The blood-shedder sank down then in the dust,
Where he had seen so many sink to die,
Weltering in gore, and shivering in the gust
Of death's black wind:—did he for death then sigh,
Then long in silence and the gloom to lie?
Since his life's life, his being was no more,
For that was but war's earthquake-ecstacy,
The scars of thunder-thoughts his crushed mind bore,
Wont to be launched on deeds that now are done and o'er.

XC

Therefore they smite and scathe his spirit now,
That faileth to repulse with force or skill;
The brand is on the heart and not the brow,
And there shall rest! How his fierce tyrannous Will
Was wreaked on crowning Execution still!
This whetted but on Exultation's pride,
Made pause of peace an agony of ill,
And now in blank repose must he abide,
Beholding earth emerge from his reign's swallowing tide.

XCI

Bright River smile, with all thy smiling waves,
The thunderers of the earth not now shall come
To plough thy trampled banks to gory graves,
And shroud thee with a veil of sulphurous gloom;
These are at rest in that engulphing tomb,
Where they so many thousands sent before;
And theirs had been, perchance, a happier doom
Therein to sleep in quiet ere they wore
The blood-dropped wreath, or trod on Victory's purple floor.

XCII

Shall War and her red-handed sons again
Along these shores of noblest beauty tread,
Besiege thy banks and desolate thy plain?
Shall hosts here crowd again to strive and bleed?
No, no! 'tis time that Peace should learn to lead
Her lovely march, where steeped in sunshine basks
The fruitful land—with field and wood and mead,
Her gentler triumphs act, and holier tasks,
And give the gracious good, which Expectation asks.

XCIII

She hath bright trophies, too, and brilliant spoils,
But stainless all and sacred these are found;
Blessed with every blessing are her toils,
She comes to heal Earth's redly-gaping wound;
And well hath she its throbbing torture bound
With bands of deep repose, and calm, until
Another. World seems brightly spreading round,
A new creation, formed by her fair skill,
And nobler victories shine, of truth and thought and will.

XCIV

The Mountains bow to kiss her beauteous feet,
The Forest's voice on her with joy doth call,
The Rivers flow her presence fair to greet,
The flowery fields breathe up their incense all
In her far sweeter face, Heaven's bright dews fall
On her most blessed head. Fair Peace, beloved,
Now shield our lives from future Discord's thrall,
Be never more from this green Earth removed,
For she hath been enough by War's black curse reproved.

XCV

Oh, Peace, thy walks and Wisdom's are the same,
Her ways are pleasantness, her paths are—thee!
From Heaven together ye most surely came,
And nothing shall disturb your unity—
Together from a guilty world ye flee,
When foul Contention chases from her soil
All powers of good; and yet doth go with ye
Another, whose high name is Love—the spoil
Of discord and distrust, whose deadly founts o'erboil.

XCVI

Those founts o'erboil when terrible and stern
Some fiery spirits burst to dreadful birth,
And teach the universal soul to burn
With gloomy heat, and parch the panting earth,
Until but thorns and tares it giveth forth,
Until a wilder world it grows and worse,
The Apostles these of Anarchy, whose mirth
Is madness—who all Ruin's wrongs rehearse,
Who preach a creed condemned—whose promise is a curse!

XCVII

They preach, and prophesy, and promise this,
Their faith is darkness and its gifts the grave;
O'er the profundity of Fate's abyss
They lead the followers they ne'er seek to save,
And Earth with skeletons of nations pave—
The keys of hell seem given unto their hands,
War's reeking tide is as the o'erflowing wave,
Of its black boiling sea, her fruitful lands
Shrink from its whirlwind-breath, parched, scorched to barren sands.

XCVIII

Foul Priests of Discord! they her temple make
This bright glad world, her shadowy sphere and seat,
Until it seems accursed for their sake!
Awful upon the mountain's gloom their feet,
The glorious message which our race did greet
Of yore, “Good will to men,” by Heaven expressed,
By them is mocked, expunged; their lips repeat
Rather the dreadful doom 'gainst all addressed,
Ere Pardon—Pity—Love—a ransomed world had blest!

XCIX

A second chaos and a second curse,
O'er wide creation, lo! they claim to bring,
And frown a fierce change o'er the universe,
Where their soiled banners midnight's shadows fling,
And their dread trumpets with death-echoes ring,
Till the Earth rocks with ruin void of good—
And hope and love and every blessed thing!
Seem the scorched stars on fire—the moon in blood,
The stained sun to have caught the infection of their mood.

C

And thus to bring the blasting of Despair,
Disciples of all discord, on your race,
And make your brother of strange ills the heir,
This is your boast and pride, yet face to face,
The spectre of Remorse shall in the place
Of phantom-glory meet ye, they shall come,
The spirits that ye vainly sought to chase
Afar for ever from your soul and doom,
Remorse and Shame and Fear shall make your hearts their home.

CI

Strong as the crowned Archangel's conquering host,
They shall rush in and make your souls their own;
Then shall ye cease to triumph and to boast,
Then shall ye 'gin to tremble and to groan,
And quake upon your blood-cemented throne:
Children of Wrath! her harvests shall ye reap,
Round your drear path shall all her thorns be strewn,
Day shall deny her sun to ye, and sleep
Her rest, and grief the tears it soothes her soul to weep.

CII

Yes, day to ye shall her glad sun deny,
And night the balm of her serene repose,
The quiet of her solemn stars and sky—
For ye and holy Nature must be foes,
She speaks of him whom your fell creed o'erthrows:
Fair priestess of the Prince of Peace is she,
And ye who would the gates of gladness close
On her and on oppressed humanity
From her reproachful face in troubled fear shall flee.

CIII

Peace! be the genius of our world, and ne'er
Again forsake us, for thy Lord's dear sake;
Thine absence is perdition—then we wear
The yoke of fear on hearts that long to break,
And heavily the cup of trembling take.
Tread out all blood stains thou, and banish strife,
Our gladdened earth thy home perpetual make;
So shall the fulness of a fearless life
Make her heart sing with health, with thee and promise rife.

CIV

On rolled broad Danube—on the wanderer fared,
And marked a scene for aye diversified,
And still his Soul each change more faintly shared,
And still his pleasure was with pain allied;
Yet as he gazed upon the passing tide
His hopes outnumbered and outvoiced his fears.
“Thus, thus,” with brow relaxed he inly cried—
“Thus floweth fast the current of dark years,
To mingle in that sea, which swallows up all tears!

CV

“Flow, River of my rolling years and hours,
Flow in your turbid tempest-trouble on,
Through wastes and wilderness, and bloomless bowers,
Whence every pleasant flower and fruit is gone;
Whate'er the way—the self-same end is won.
Flow free—flow fast, and give me to that goal
Where I and wretchedness may cease to groan
Roll on, dark River of my Being, roll,
Roll to thine ocean, too, first, last Thought of my soul!”

CVI

It will and must be so, I know, and yet
I feel that immortality of gloom
Stretching beyond where proud Suns rise and set,
Darkening beyond the darkness of the tomb,
A changeless, checkless, and a choiceless doom.
But this is fancy's mockery, I shall find
As others do, in that long, last, lone home,
Repose that leaves all we can hope behind,
And that soft-lidded sleep, with no vain dreams is twined.

CVII

Mölk! mighty palace of the Prince of Peace,
Repose for eye and mind! thou stately pile,
Bid every thought of strife and carnage cease,
And let Love's day-star o'er the spirit smile,
Each war-worn fancy well canst thou beguile,
To loftier lovelier subjects—yet behold
Dark superstitions did their rites defile,
Who raised this splendid, solemn shrine of old,
And these undid those links, formed of truth's purest gold.

CVIII

Still art thou lovely, still thou art sublime,
And still thou smilest from thy noble height,
In mild defiance to the assault of Time,
As though to stand unscathed were thy proud right:
From the white walls how gleams the brightened light,
As with a sacred splendour from the spot,
All newly won, and startling to the sight,
Which long thereon undazzled dwelleth not—
Such light Religion sheds on all our life and lot.

CIX

The wayward traveller here awhile did gaze,
And for brief space his countenance disclosed
A calm unwonted, but full quickly strays—
The thought (that seldom long on aught reposed)
'Twas not that Hope, the flatterer, tempting glozed,
'Twas not the butterfly's incessant change—
No! 'twas the mind from every deep tie loosed,
That fluttered on from no desire to range,
But simply that it sought from self thus self to estrange.

CX

Yet looked he round, but marked not what he saw,
For busy with her tablets Memory moved
Like a dark shadow, o'er his soul to awe,
And torture, and subdue: again he loved
And lost and languished, and all sufferings proved
Which wrought pernicious phrenzy in his brain!
And still his never-resting fancy roved
Through every path of tried and untried pain—
And thus his thoughts flowed on, in dark and dreary strain.

CXI

“Were there a world all lonely-lost in space,
Without a Sun to light it on its way,
A comrade-world to bless it on its race,
An atmosphere its surface to array,
A goal to tempt it on—a power to sway,
Or one inhabitant to cheer its gloom,
Such world were like my spirit in its clay;
Time is its torture—Nature is its tomb,
In hopelessness it breaks—breaks to its bitter doom.

CXII

“Is this indeed a universe of Death?
To me the phantasm of a dead hell now
It seemeth, where, deprived of sense and breath,
Myriads beneath their agony still bow,
Though Fate doth unto their despair allow
To feel its force no longer; such a hush
To me seems binding th'emptied earth, whose brow
Grows charnel-ghastly too, without one blush
Of light or life, methinks—is Death a true thing?—tush!

CXIII

“Else had my heart been his—made all his own,
His throne, his home, his temple, and his shrine;
But it is living as though life alone
Were in its vile varieties all mine,
Living with such intensity I pine,
To feel it failing for one moment here—
Its fetters, fevers, phrenzies, to resign,
But this may not be, and without a tear
I suffer on, and know no future but a fear!

CXIV

“I have another soul, another heart,
Sorrow's creation wholly and alone,
Her shadowy skill is traced through every part,
The work and workmanship are all her own,
Each trace of my past being's truth is gone,
At least I there have died, have perished there,
A stranger to my former self am grown,
And my new spirit a dark weed doth wear
A shroud of gloom so deep—'tis an unknown despair.

CXV

“Sorrow! her shadow is my soul!—Her will
Is mine, and her deep dreary presence all
I know, or guess, or can imagine, still
I live and move, and bear this bitterest thrall,
And wage Existence as one War, and fall
Upon no happy chance: but it is done,
The worst is tried, the heaviest chains but gall,
Till in the withering flesh is worn and won
Their place at last—and then, the torturing smart is gone.

CXVI

“And yet it is not always thus with me!—
Again the pang awakes—the torture wrings,
Again I heave and hiss with agony,
Like some poor snake its fellow-reptiles' stings
Have struck and strike for ever!—till the strings
Of life are jarred from all their harmony,
While half the madness of my memory springs
From the sharp thought that I of old could be
More armed to brave and brunt, those griefs unflinchingly!

CXVII

“Shine not, thou Sun, upon my sorrows yet,
A little while to gather up my grief
(Since every joy for me is waned and set)
Into a form distinct, then for relief
I may be taught to seek—for season brief
I must give way to misery and his worst,
And bend before this first-felt woe and chief,
Then seek to quench this agonizing thirst,
For comfort at some springs not like my heart's springs, cursed.

CXVIII

“I do not say I love thee, I know not
What mine own feelings now may have become,
Such anguish is ordained unto my lot,
Such heaviness of an unfathomed gloom,
My heart lies tenantless, an empty tomb;
But yet a tomb where universal death
Seems shadowed forth—my miserable doom
Is to have no one thought or dream beneath
On which, reposing thus—I may awhile draw breath!

CXIX

“What have I done, what hath been done for me?
I am the prey and victim, thou! oh thou!
What art thou, in thy nameless cruelty,
Before whose spirit mine was born to bow,
And all its tyranny and power avow?
Oh! deal a happier doom! I know not what,
Yet any thing but this—life doth allow
No hope to me, so of a happier lot
I dream not—deem not, but, would have this all forgot!

CXX

“Pity may not be mine, it may not flow
To heal these wounds which cruelty hath given,
Alone I stand to battle with my woe,
And all self-pity from my soul is driven,
And this is wise, those who have sought, and striven,
And struggled long, and mourned as mourners do,
Over themselves, and wept the crushed heart riven,
The bowed soul stricken—and the life pierced through,
Know that the wisest part is hope to shun—not sue!

CXXI

“No grief to learn, no sorrow fresh to feel!
Surely this life will tame and torpid grow;
I have been used on Torture's restless wheel
To writhe and wind in ever-various woe;
Shall I no fresh-invented torments know?
Have I run through them all? hath ruthless Fate
No novel anguish and no final blow?
She that hath agonized me long and late,
My heart! lie still beneath this death-like stupor's state.

CXXII

“Lie still! life may forget thee! thou, perchance,
Mayst learn thyself life's severs to forget
In thine exhaustion's dim and cloudy trance,
As though her Sun for thee indeed were set,
When every suffering hath been braved and met,
When every pang hath been endured and borne,
Then Hope and Fear are done with, and regret,
And little then is left, but some self-scorn,
And some faint, cold surprise, that still for us smiles, morn!

CXXIII

“Is there no change of suffering? Oh! methinks
All suffering is the same from first to last,
Bound as a gloomy chain with leaden links,
And every link alike—the shadowy Past
And shadowy Future too, that wide-spread waste,
Are without difference or distinction there
In Grief's dull eye, but dimly o'er them cast,
And seeing only her own fears and care,
Spread evermore, and all subject to her despair.

CXXIV

“There comes no change, or there comes none for me,
One grief is every grief unto my soul!
Yet is that multitude monotony;
One word writ there hath withered up the whole,
Mine hours stamped with each other's impress roll,
And One is All!—I sicken for some change.
Kind Destiny, canst give no deadlier dole?
Give any sorrow, so that it be strange,
For restless in my pangs I fain would rove and range;

CXXV

“Would gather bitters as bees gather sweets,
With business of some choice work occupied,
I pine to 'scape from all that daily meets—
And languish for some stir of time and tide;
But this to me seems sternly still denied.
All is alike—no action—no repose!
No peace—no war—my present hath belied
My past, that promised still, ere life's dull close,
My fate should grant, at least, incessant change of woes.

CXXVI

“But one hath swallowed up all, all the rest,
Like Aaron's serpent in the days of old,
And that remaineth fixed and unexpressed,
In power unquestionable, calm and cold
Beneath it sinks my soul, her tale is told,
Hope is the vanity she most abjures,
But longeth for oblivion's icy fold
To close around the wound time, skill ne'er cures,
For all life hath beside—she loathes their treacherous lures!

CXXVII

“Rest for the soul that hath to travel through
Wide worlds of thought and feeling must have foes
And these in truth are neither faint nor few
In its own natural movements that ne'er close
But sorrow's silence of stagnation! those
Who such have felt alone can such pourtray—
Pourtray? no, no, there are wild murderous woes
Which limping language faintly may convey,
But such a death-deep grief—that gloom can none display!

CXXVIII

“I know it, feel it, bear it, brave it, till
I know and feel nought else save that alone,
Like a dead chaos, petrified and chill
Lies my bowed soul, and such in sooth 'tis grown,
Far sadder than the primal!—this hath known
Order and harmony, and joy and peace,
And all but pain's fatality hath flown!
When shall the phantasm of this chaos cease?
When from this restless rest shall I win dear release!

CXXIX

“If life and death in stern embrace could twine,
Till the two shadows in one gloom were lost,
Twere my soul's state and seeming! the tomb's shrine
Might claim her as a weary wandering ghost,
While life retains her weakly at the most!—
Oh! ye twin shadows, I do surely think
Death, death the most of substance, ev'n may boast,
We may look long on him from the awful brink—
But, life, thou fleetest so, our dazzled senses shrink,

CXXX

“Thou fleetest, flittest so, we scarce can gaze
One moment steadily on thy winged form;
What art thou, changeful, ever-flickering blaze,
And fluttering light, that scarce our souls can warm?
Art thou the rainbow of the Dark One's storm?
Say, is the other as the lord of thee,
For whom thy regions teem, thy myriads swarm,
Because he is art thou ordained to be?
He seizes all of thine, and vainly wouldst thou flee!

CXXXI

“Is he thy sire as suzerain—dost thou spring
From forth the dust into the dust to sink?
Thou art the subject of the shadowy king,
But art thou bound to him by tenderer link,
In yon dull senseless mould from which we shrink
See the ashes of successive worlds remain;
We have indeed two living parents, think
How many to complete the ancestral chain
Under the ribs of Death have long unconscious lain.

CXXXII

“A shade-descended shade art thou, oh life!
The troubled flutter of a little dust,
A momentary struggle and a strife,
One furtive glance of wonder and distrust,
And then the doom that still hath come and must,
And we within that under-world have birth,
Where rest commixed the wicked and the just,
Thou wert and art not—he of thee makes mirth,
For he remains, and his is the empire the hour and the earth.

CXXXIII

“Go to! thou dost awake us from our sleep—
Sad life! or rather a distracted dream,
Thou break'st in on our senseless slumber deep,
To which once more we turn when thy strange gleam
Forgets itself to darkness, beam by beam,
Why dost thou teach the stings, throbs, racks of pain,
The unnumbered woes wherewith our brief years teem,
Unto a handful of dim dust?—'tis vain
'Tis feebly stirred awhile, then standeth still again.

CXXXIV

“Why, why, do we thus start from out the mould
To know what Light, Love, Living might be made
Then to fade quickly dustwards, bowed and old,
Ere dust that died before us is decayed?
Why do we see the Sun to seek the shade?
Why look on Heaven to drop into a grave?
Is there no hope, no shelter, and no aid?
Cease, wandering fancy, madly dost thou rave
For there is One indeed to shelter and to save!

CXXXV

“Life, thou'rt a shadow, but not that of death;
Of an eternity of joy and love,
And what thou dost begin in mortal breath
Is finished, perfected, sublimed above;
There, there, the exulting soul shall breathe, live, move;
Here prisoned and dependent on the clay!
There through all worlds shall she rejoicing rove,
Here not through one may she unfettered stray,
And that must she resign, exiled from air and day.

CXXXVI

“Oh! the bright difference—the consummate change!
Our daily sun hath here the cloud and spot,
There woe and tears shall be the rare and strange,
Nay, more th'unknown, and here are these things not
The desolate conditions of our lot?
But this life is the night of nature:—rise,
Fair Morn of Heaven, where all shall be forgot,
Save the new rapture poured upon all eyes,
Save the soul's sphered pride, and sunbreak in the skies!

CXXXVII

“'Tis in such moods—our minds soar far and high,
Then for awhile are they unchecked and free,
Then do we send our quick thoughts to the sky,
And make our souls a star! So let them be!
There let love find them, thus let angels see,
For they are worthy of such power and place,
If in those soarings they are seeking Thee,
O Thou! who bade them run the immortal race,
And left it to themselves their course to choose and trace.

CXXXVIII

“And with such glories Heaven must yet o'erflow,
Those worlds are our stars, but our souls are thine;
Thou see'st them kindling with the immortal glow,
Thou mark'st them as they burn, and blaze, and shine,
Though for no eyes displayed but the divine;
For clouds of darkness ever frown between
Our spirits and the spirits even that twine
Most fondly with our own on this jarred scene,
Where all is war and woe, and evermore hath been.”

CXXXIX

Then stood he silent for a little space,
With brow more cloudless than 'twas wont to seem,
But in a moment fell upon his face
Once more the darkness of a haunting dream,
And banished thence the gently bright'ning gleam,
Then lifted up its voice, his heavy heart,
And wept, and wept, and dwelt on one dark theme,
Whose memory all too seldom did depart,—
Wherefore was he unblest, wrung with its piercing smart.

CXL

And on what mournful subject—what sad theme
Dwelt and discoursed his heart with gushing woe,
What was the gloomy spirit of his dream,
What the deep sorrow that surpassed all show,
He knew too well; none other e'er may know
The secret of that wounded soul's despair,
But with such secrets doth all life o'erflow,
And ofttimes they are veiled and shrouded there,
Where we suspect them least,—a buried, treasured care!

CXLI

The landscape smiled! he marked a different spot,
The river flowed, but he was far away,
The sunshine gleamed, but he observed it not;
Another scene and a far distant day
Memory around him called with quiet sway—
Time wrongs us, death bereaves us, life beguiles
And soon betrays us, on our laboured way;
But time, and life, and death, with all their wiles,
And all their strength obey, when memory claims her spoils!

CXLII

And surely she was tyrant ruler now,
Luxuriating in mystery of her might,
Glance at the dreaming eye, the o'er-written brow,
Around him falls of long-set suns the light,
That eye is wildly, feverishly bright,
Its every look a language—as for tears,
Long, long had they been done with, and the blight
Had settled on his soul, through all its years
There trace the hand whose touch like some worse death appears.

CXLIII

Thou com'st!—for ever fairer than my hope!—
Dearer than all dear memories shrined of thee!—
Till with devotion's depth my soul must droop,
Faint with its passion's strong intensity,
So ever do I love thee better—see!
My life is but one thought, my soul one dream
Of thine—beloved—my love should ever be
More rapturous and more blest, since beam on beam
It gathers and it grows to glory's full extreme.

CXLIV

Thou comest! oh, thy presence is indeed
My breath of life,—Thy life's breath is my Soul,
Thy shadow all my sun!—I seek to weed
All else but thoughts of thee from out the whole
Of mine existence:—as a secret scroll
O'erwritten but with dreams of thee I would
My spirit should be—let these dark days roll,
And end this absence, for it makes my mood
Bitter and sad—while all my feelings jar in feud.

CXLV

Thou art not and I am not; thou art far
And I—despair! then, tell me what am I!
My thoughts are tortures, as my feelings are:
Thou'rt lost,—so perish all my dreams and die,
And every hope doth wan and withered lie.
Thou com'st not, no! thou com'st not, I must bear
This worse than madness to the end, nor fly
From one keen pang, from one devouring care,
But wither on and waste, and smile on thee—Despair.

CXLVI

For Love and Pride are me! I cannot stoop
Ev'n to mine own great anguish—but must view
Still death-blow after death-blow given to hope:
To pride and passion, torturingly true,
With many a poisoned shaft I sink, pierced through;
But the hour is not yet come, which sees, at last,
The weariest of the wretched to the hue
Of lifeless peace fade down—beneath that blast
Which scatters far and free Life's last leaves o'er the waste!

CXLVII

Thou comest not—but that cometh; how my heart
Aches at that heavy Hope, the last and best.
Lay down thy bitter fardels and depart,
Spirit, for ever mournful and unblest,
Thou hast been Earth's unloved, neglected guest;
Deliver Heaven and Earth from gloom and thee,
And fade away into thy dreamless rest:
None shall lament thee—thou shalt never be
A haunting dream of love, a lingering memory.

CXLVIII

I scarce would wish to be remembered here;
Why in another shadow seek to live?
Enough of shadowy and unreal appear
My present elements; let none then give
Or groans or thoughts or tears, when doth arrive
That hour of hours which stills this storm for me!
Nor in the mourning bosom fondly hive
Regrets that to themselves must painful be,
Nor pleasant, parted Soul! nor soothing unto thee!

CXLIX

When I am breathless then, let none bestow
Another false existence thus on me:
Why should I leave a likeness of past woe?
Spurn the chain's fragments when the captive's free!
I would for ever far and farther flee,
Not in another's thoughts would I appear
The wretch I am, and have been; nor would be
A phantasy more vain, with nought of clear
Or just resemblance touched—a gentler dream of cheer.

CL

I would be none and nothing—at the least,
Nothing and none on Earth's forsaken scene,
When the pulsations of my pain have ceased,
And I am not, as I have darkly been.
Too fondly and too foolishly we lean
To the weak hopes of being long entwined
In living thoughts, when grave-glooms yawn between
Ourselves and breathing Earth—let me but find
Peace in mine own, a blank, in every other mind.

CLI

Let not my name in any living heart
Be as an echo of a thing that was,
A meaning and a memory—I would part
From all delusions, and bid this one pass,
The vainest of them all.—We deem, alas!
We can outlive ourselves in others' love;—
A moment more,—they mix in Ruin's mass,
Their memory is oblivion, while they move
Thro' the deep Valley's shades, and false and faithless prove.

CLII

The dying by the dying—(such are all!)
Would be remembered—vanity most vain:
Yon glorious sky is but a radiant Pall,
Over a world of death, where none remain:
The hope of joy and the keen truth of pain,
Tried by us tremblers, all is quickly o'er,
We are resolved to dust's true state again,
And other billows break on this same shore,
And other births but swell the records of “no more.”

CLIII

Oh! what a burthen have we not to bear,
And what a weight to carry to our tomb!
Hopes that have turned and trembled to despair,
The wings that bore the spirit o'er the gloom,
Of this dull world, now changed by fatal doom
Into the mountains, that must press it down
To dust and death; and still we must resume
The march of Destiny, though worse fates frown,
Day after day, and bear those burthens weightier grown.

CLIV

Our thoughts are not our own! can we command
These for a moment? no, they come from far,
And visit us and leave us, and we stand
And strive to check their flight, but yon fair star
As easy 'twere to pluck from its bright car,
As back compel one lost forgotten thought—
Vain mortals, breathing atoms sure ye are,
Your souls are scarcely yours while yet this nought,
This world surrounds ye thus with things unstable fraught.

CLV

Are not our thoughts our own? these shall again
Unto our spirit in its freed state flow,
But brightly cleansed from ev'ry wrong and pain;
Our thoughts go from us, where? they die not, no!
No more than Souls can die—they part and go
Before us to rejoin the mighty whole—
'Tis we that die from them, thus left below,
Our life is but expiring, for the soul
Passes in thoughts away—a still rewritten scroll.

CLVI

That soul exhales herself to either shore,
As good or evil are her thoughts below,
Which though they leave us, live for evermore,
And haply mightier in their silence grow,
Developed more than ev'n ourselves may know.
Oh! we should dread them, watch them, weigh them well;
Further than we can follow them they go!
Thus we are far and near, and dimly dwell
Above, around, beyond, half bursting Nature's shell.

CLVII

Half of the good man's life is now in heaven!—
His Past,—with its recorded thoughts and deeds;
And this is loveliest consolation given,
To him who holds the heavenliest of all creeds:
Time flies—Life wanes, but these eternal seeds
Of Souls are sown, where they shall well bring forth!—
Joys fleet, our strength decays, the worn heart bleeds,
But if our past lives have owned aught of worth,
We may defy and brave all,—all the graves of Earth!

CLVIII

Create in me one single thought of thee,
And let that be my soul! Eternal Sire,
Thus chase the multiplied monotony
Of thoughts that Earth and earthly things inspire,
That if they burn—burn with unhallowed fire,
And if they soar, but soar to sink again,
Oh! let them brightlier burn and rise far higher,
So may they brunt and challenge mortal pain,
And never cease to pour their high seraphic strain.

CLIX

Dreams! like bright angels to my Soul ye come,
And seem to bring your Heaven with you to Earth,
An atmosphere of your Celestial Home,
To beautify this barren sphere's cold dearth,
O! ye are lovely, holy things, and mirth
Were dull beside your gladness, joy a thrall,
And wealth a waste, beside what ye pour forth
Of bliss and treasures,—hear my heart's deep call,
“Come, come and stay with me, or never come at all!”

CLX

Unbodied we perchance may rise and rise,
Into our whole existence' height at last!
Since here we live in truth beneath the skies,
But a slight portion of that being vast
Which Souls shall yet attain to, when the past
Hath all of mean and mortal that is ours:
And, ah! the eternity that spirit cast
In mould ethereal, with the immortal powers,
That shall but know increase thro' the endlessness of hours!

CLXI

'Tis o'er mined ground we move for ever here,
And many enemies surround our way,
Change at our sides and ruin in the rear,
Death, Time, Decay down mowing day by day
Our hopes, friends, feelings, treasures; and our clay,
Strong in its grossness, even for evermore
Rebelling 'gainst the spirit's nobler sway,
And tainting all things, to our own heart's core,
Which seldom wears for long the whiteness it once wore.

CLXII

How many dreams must vanish and depart,
Ere we can understand our mortal doom!
So deep the dear delusions of the heart,
It sees a thousand sink into their tomb,
Ere it can look on doubt and fear's dull gloom.
Hope! sweet impostor, doth pretend to be
A Power and Ruler, and doth thus assume
False attributes, which more belong to thee,
Grief! Grief! o'ermastering lord of Life's immensity.

CLXIII

Hope is a rainbow in herself too bright,
To see things as they are with their own hues;
'Tis her's they wear, and tricked in jewelled light,
Please her with her own image; while renews
Her glory still its iris glow, nor lose
Those tints their restless brightness, it is well!
But if a paler gleam around she strews,
Life the changed landscape doth its own truth tell,
And wears a chastened light—and breaks the radiant spell!

CLXIV

We make thy rainbow, Hope, our daily Sun,
Aye, and our nightly too;—the starry host
Were dim, didst thou our midnight pillow shun,
Dreaming or waking—half their light were lost,
In shadow of our sadness—still thou dost
Make these divine and glorious for thy sake,
And all things,—but the best and brightest most.
Painful the light when 'tis to weep we wake,
Our daily, nightly, Sun thy Rainbow, Hope, we make.

CLXV

The colours of Creation, as it seems
To us, are all transpierced and touched with those
That gild the fairy land of thy fine dreams:
To thee the current of all spirit flows;
There are whose Soul no other rapture knows!
But where thou'rt faithful in continuance, there
Thyself thou'rt Happiness, howe'er men choose
To know thee by thy lovelier name, and share
Twin happinesses—thus breathing in blessed air.

CLXVI

Like birds of beauty came my hopes serene,
That lent enchantment, movement, music, life,
To all my Soul and all my mortal scene;
But when came on Care's cold and wintery strife,
They vanished wholly, and no longer rife
With melodies and colours was my day,
Then to my heart's quick cut the keen-edged knife
Of disappointment—and the cold decay
Of feeling, throb by throb, wasted Life's life away.

CLXVII

Why do I think of things that pierce my heart,
With every sting of agony and woe?
Why do I make not a calm life apart,
Whose currents may not to the currents flow
Of Pain's deep bitter Stream, for well I know
We live still different lives at different times,
And colour often our own feelings so,
Making them what we will through changing climes,
Of circumstance and place, through nights,—noons,—morn's glad primes.

CLXVIII

Oh! hear the eloquent breaking of a heart!
Listen to Love that breathes through agony;
Lend me thy pitying ear ere yet I part,
For surely the bereaved and lorn must die;
Read thou the emphatic history of a sigh!—
Where gasps a soul, a very soul in pain,
Beyond all dreaming—must I sink and lie
In the ashes of my hopes with still a chain
Linking to life abhorred—and all I most disdain.

CLXIX

One thought burns like a fire within my soul,
Consuming all the rest with its fierce might
Within! Alas! it hath become the whole,
And all which is not that is death and night.
Oh! for the brief hour of the furthest flight,
For peace, rest, hope, forgetfulness of thee
None ever sighed for rapture of delight,
As I for such escape from misery,
I have endured too much, and from myself would flee.

CLXX

I shudder when to life each morn I wake,
As would the wretch at sight of the oft-tried rack.
My heart anticipates each throe and ache!
Rehearsing all the wrenchings that shall crack
Its strings asunder, drive its life-blood back,
And crush it to a conscious dust of death:—
I shudder—and the Sun looks cold and black
To me who struggle, yet who sink beneath
The accumulated woes that waste me breath by breath.

CLXXI

Soul of my soul! thy looks are all my light,
Thy love is all my life and all my fate;
My being is bowed down before thy might,
Without thy presence I am desolate,
Thou dost thy spirit in my soul create!
Thus, my changed being! not mine own thou art,
But I am rapt into a new, strange state,
And one by one my stricken thoughts depart,
To leave but one—the dream, the madness of the heart!

CLXXII

The waters of my many tears have gone
Over my soul at last to crush and drown
Each hope, each energy, and leave alone
The sense of anguish that must press it down
As with a weight of years! how darkly frown
My fears around me—and no rainbow comes
To gild the scene, and glitt'ringly recrown
Those weeping waters of the Heart!—how glooms
That heavy cloud uncleared—the prey of tyrannous dooms.

CLXXIII

The Heart is as a Cloud surcharged with rain,
And still it pours and pours its poisoned dews
Shower after shower, again and oft again,
But not one bitter drop so seems to lose!
But still its own sad heaviness renews.
Still higher than the Nile those rivers rise,
But not to flush the scene with fruitful hues:
Alas! tears bring forth tears—sighs force fresh sighs,
And the heart's cloud but rains redoubled agonies!

CLXXIV

Farewell! again farewell, oh, when no joy
Remaineth to us how we love our grief,
And drink that cup as it could never cloy,
With thirst that maddens us, as though relief
Were found—however vain it be and brief
In that indulgence of excess, ah, me,
We prize our sorrows, and ourselves the chief
Tormentors of ourselves still prove to be
Full often, while we rail 'gainst ruthless Destiny.

CLXXV

Farewell! oh, word of Death and of Despair,
I weep and groan thee forth as 'twere my life,
My very life and very soul that there
Sobbed throbbing out in the agonizing strife.
Farewell! now cut deep with the inhuman knife
Of utter hopelessness unto my heart,
Though lately 'twas with hopes and visions rife,
Must it from these consent indeed to part?
Life! what a waste—and worse—a whelming sea thou art.

CLXXVI

Farewell! once more farewell, I cannot bear
To speak that word, nor leave it yet unsaid.
My heart! thou surely hast a new despair
Conceived—created! never yet was fed
A worm so deadly as the one whose bed
Is in thy deepest core—life, life and love,
To me ye seem but names to which are wed
Our hearts and hopes in vain; afar, above,
Alone methinks can we their perfect meaning prove.

CLXXVII

My life's the lengthened shadow of one thought,
My heart of hearts a hollow agony,
Which nought can hush but that which hath untaught,
So many a heart to ache, and beat—to die;
And thus is closed the long long strife, a sigh,
After so many sighs—and our career
Closes with all its care! in peace we lie:
The wretched are the watchful, for they fear,
And still expect new pangs—till that deep hour draws near.

CLXXVIII

Come to my soul! or let it go to thee
Though through the gloomiest portals of the grave,
Oh! I would plunge me in the Shadowy Sea,
And all its darkness and dismay would brave,
For there is but one thing I hope or crave,
To look on thee and live, or look and die!
Or could I die and go to thee!—I rave
For words of passion and of agony,
To thee must raving seem, who hear'st with tearless eye.

CLXXIX

Come to my soul, or let it go to thine,
Though through all terrors and all tortures, still
Let it be rapt to thine and thee. I pine,
I perish thought by thought, and feel the chill,
Withering up every hope and wish and will,
But one—but this—far vainer than the rest,
It can but all mine hours with suffering fill,
And be a disappointment, and infest
My paths, my pillow, with ten thousand dreams unblest.

CLXXX

Never such anguish crushed my soul before,
It strikes at every part, and leaves even none
Without a wound—my soul is covered o'er
With scars and torture—scathes too much undone
Ever to hope that peace may yet be won:
Against that Soul a heavy doom is writ,
Like Cain's, nay, worse—in restlessness to shun,
And seek, for ever vainly!—but 'tis lit
At mine own Soul the brand,—there raves the unquiet fit!

CLXXXI

It is a weary thought that this must be
My future life, without a dream or show
Of busy change or quick variety,
A present and a future of One Woe!
All thoughts but coloured by one hue! to know;
This dreariness makes heavy life appear
A sigh of breath—a flickering flame and low,
The faint and feeble flutter of a fear,
And can a dream like this be for one moment dear?

CLXXXII

Not dear—not dear—save thou art so beloved,
Since life acquainted me with thee I cling
To that stern vision, and my soul is moved
To bless what so hath cursed me! scourge and sting
Have wrung me and for evermore may wring;
But I have yet a Soul! and that yet hath
The Love that makes her seem the immortal thing
She is and must be—for through wrong and wrath
That doth uphold and urge in one unvarying path.

CLXXXIII

Oh! the almighty wish and powerless will,
Life's long continual torture these must be,
Until the restless spirit standeth still,
Then through that stillness flows the infinity—
Then is she all that is sublime and free—
But now but here, her struggles must be vain,
And struggling sinks she deeper in the sea,
That howls and dashes round—tempestuous main,
That ceases ne'er to rave—till we grow still again.

CLXXXIV

But this is the beginning and the end
Of all our sufferings—we still stir and move,
And now with one thing, now another blend,
Dividing our own Souls—that restless prove,
Impaled on wishes, and while thus we rove,
Dividing too the Universe! that might
If we would weigh it as a whole, with love,
And peace, our spirits enter, and unite
With them, and be one Truth, one Life, one Bliss, one Light!

CLXXXV

But we still cause division—dark and deep,
That link of love too heartlessly we break,
Which should bind all things, and divideless keep,
Till All are One—but we still watch and wake
To wait on discord and division make;
For selfishness the heart of strife shall prove—
Her law is separation—for her sake
We wrong the glorious scheme, whose Soul is love,
And make the vulture prey on the emblematic dove.

CLXXXVI

It doth—and on the hearts that find dull hate,
Or cold indifference for their kind displace,
The natural sympathies, that soon or late
Shall back recoil, with quick remorse to chase
From bosoms that seem'd shut 'gainst their own race
Soon the insufficient visions that awhile
Won all the soul's devotion—vile and base.
So have we laboured but to lose our toil,
Our fellows made our foes—our own lost souls our spoil!

CLXXXVII

Streaming with smiles still morning comes again,
She that hath brought all terrors to the earth,
All sufferings, sorrows, from her opening reign,
Concealed in her bright golden Urn—and mirth,
Strength, state, and splendour come with her; 'tis worth
A thousand days this wakening morn of joy,
Despite these thoughts that shade it, drawing forth
The gloomy truth's embittering, sad alloy,
For morning comes—dreams, hopes, illusions to destroy.

CLXXXVIII

Illusion! when thou'rt lost a waste is life,
Thou art our portion from the very first;
The child who thinks that he can catch the rife
Rich rainbow is thy prey—that bubble's burst,
But thousands more quench our desiring thirst!
From youth to age we are Illusion's slaves,
And oft our wildest suffering and our worst
Is when we see sink darkly in their graves,
Those first, last, best of Friends, whose presence soothes and saves.

CLXXXIX

Man lives not on this mortal common earth,
But in a world that he himself hath made;
We have been building up even from our birth,
Our habitation, and nor sun nor shade
Can wholly this destroy, though half decayed,
Full oft through chinks and loopholes doth appear
The common world; and this it is hath weighed
On many a noble spirit—that would steer
Its self-launched bark along time's stream, with changeless cheer.

CXC

Yes! men create the world in which they live,
With gradual progress and with growing powers,
Nature doth from our hands her stamp receive;
No living eyes look on that world but ours—
Through turns of time and tide, thro' shine and showers,
All differently perceive the scene around:
Our thoughts, impregnable, are our strong towers,
And still we see each sight—hear ev'ry sound
With feelings that for all have different meanings found.

CXCI

My world is not thy world—did men indeed
Inhabit spheres remote, far far apart,
They could not paths more widely various tread;
Still with the soul we see, and with the heart,
And as we see thee, Earth, for us thou art,
Ye must be rapt into the far recess
Of others' minds, which have nor map nor chart,
To enter on that globe ye cannot guess—
Wherein they traverse space—and to the one goal press.

CXCII

To some 'tis glorious as the very sun
That lights it on its way—one cloudless blaze;
To others dreary as the cloud and dun—
The thunder-cloud that dims that fair sun's rays;
To some, whose hearts hive knowledge and yield praise,
'Tis full of mighty things; for others mean—
While gloomy frown its nights and dull its days;
In short, it shows a never-equal scene,
But back reflects the soul, the stormy or serene.

CXCIII

I have a separate and a single sphere,
Whence none but me look up unto the sky!
But slowly now methinks I see appear
A darker, duller world, where shadows lie,
That slant not from my thoughts, and to mine eye
Frown cold and meaningless—another world
Seems rising up before me—with a sigh
Must I see mine depart—in gloom upfurled,
Where I would live and die—from this and gladness hurled!

CXCIV

Give me a hope, and that one single star
Shall stream into a sun on such a night!
The clouds—the shadows darkly hideous are
That hope should shine thereon, even doubly bright,
And make the firmaments a flood of light
Or the pierced gloom, the shadow of a heaven.
Give me a hope—and with its magic might
Will I do wonders yet, where nought is given
But bitterness and fear, vainly the mind hath striven.

CXCV

And vainly mine shall strive, for hope comes not,
And 'tis unbroken darkness that I see,
Until I scarce can look upon my lot—
So cheerless-gloomy doth it seem to be:
Where shall I look then?—never more on thee,
Falsest of all things false, with whom compared
The clouds are stable and the winds that flee!
But if thou'rt false how faulty he who dared
Build on thy thawing faith as he would be ensnared.

CXCVI

The shipwrecked sailor whispereth of his woe,
And men compassionate his wave-worn care;
The ruined merchant doth his sadness show,
And none shall chide him for his sufferings there;
The prince deposed find those who, pitying, share
His grief, and dwelleth on his sorrow's gloom;
But the heart's bankrupts must not, may not dare
To hope or ask for aught, before the tomb,
Let their lashed spirits shut, upon their hopeless doom.

CXCVII

Who would be learned in sorrow let them come
To me, for I her mysteries well can show,
And all the haunted horrors of her gloom;
I am a master in the art of woe,
Thanks to thy deadly teaching, and I know
Her sacred secrets well, and hoard them all;
And still new affluence of her wealth doth flow
Unto my soul, nor waiteth for my call:
Rich, rich am I in grief, whose gifts still round me fall.

CXCVIII

Not what heaven made us are we, we have made
Ourselves and marred—self-miscreators still,
Our best of powers and brightest feelings fade
Beneath our vile self-governance—we chill
The loftiest aspirations, and our will
Worketh against the works of Him who wrought
All things within us or without—of ill
We are the authors, both in deed and thought,
And to confront his good have our own evil brought,

CXCIX

What have we made ourselves? who dares to own
Who dares to look on all that he hath done?
Quenched is the light that once within us shone,
Our souls that should be worthier than yon sun,
To be the temple of the Omniscient One,
Are choked with darkness, on their walls is writ
That the great Presence thence is parted—gone,—
Yet he designed them, and had made them fit
To be his arks and shrines, before the Infinite.

CC

Before all worlds of his wide universe,
He chose them for his dwelling—but, behold!
They are beneath the shadow of a curse,
(How few, rewrought, are cast in holier mould,)
And gates of brass and sculptured shrines of gold,
More worthy of his occupation seem,
Than the stained spirit unto evil sold,—
The only failure in creation's scheme,—
Though there His glory deigned, crown'd in the highest, beam.”

CCI

The dreamer started, and the dream was done;
A voice abruptly broke upon his ear,
But those were words and names that quickly won
His glad attention—in themselves most dear,
Awakening feelings fraught with kindly cheer;
Familiar names and words that seemed to bring
Home-scenes before him, all distinct and clear,
That voice spoke of Old England and her King,
That bold crusader-chief, whose fame afar did ring.

CCII

See ye yon crumbling ruin on the rock,
A hundred wars and winters have assailed
With shattering fury and with weakening shock,
The tower, whose cloudy heights no more are scaled:
There lorn and sad our English Richard wailed,
The bitter waters of captivity
Proved as slow poison, when Hope's prompting failed:
How could he bear in chains and gloom to lie
Who led united hosts to threefold victory!

CCIII

Dark tower of Shreckenwald! how many years,
Time and the rolling River have swept past
Your mouldering walls, where little now appears
But desolation sternly round them cast,
Since the bold prince, from thraldom loosed at last,
Here mourned the bygone triumphs of his might,
And pined to bide and breathe the chainless blast—
The captive king and the marauding knight
Wear the same bonds at length—withered by one same blight.

CCIV

But, lo! another castellated hold,
Another dungeon-tower, where he was thrown,
In those dark stormy-sweeping days of old,
That lion-hearted king, to chafe and groan:
Hark what sweet strain above the windy moan,
And watery murmur, on the sudden heard
Startles the captive from his couch of stone,
Dearer than day-hymn of the mounting bird,
Hail! strain of home, of heaven, thou payest for hope deferred.

CCV

Old Dürrenstein! how changed thy scene then seemed;
That voice up-conjured others, and that lay;
Back all the pomp and glory past he dreamed,
And smiled to him again his state and sway,
Smiled them back unto him, till the hour and day
Wrought years of change, thus in his mind and mood,
How blest he that sweet voice, that sang away
Those heaviest cares that long did o'er him brood,
Till rushed in wonted flow his storm of fiery blood.

CCVI

Blondel, good, loyal servant of thy lord,
Oh! thy high harp's triumphant deathless strain
Hath found an echo in each true heart's chord,
An everlasting echo, that shall reign
Unchanged, nor proved that precious music vain,
That holiest music that e'er yet was called
From voiceful shell, to thrill to heart and brain;
No more the bars restrained, the fetters galled,—
The warrior-lord is free, by love's faith disenthralled.

CCVII

Alack! how many a withering wasting hour
Of weariness, and watchfulness, of yore,
Did that brave spirit pass in yon stern tower,
Till ate the chain into his bosom's core,
Till haughty visions made the gloom yet more,
In after-deep'ning felt!—while scenes of strife
Rushed back upon him, till the rugged floor
Was as a field of blood with horrors rife,
Teeming with those fierce shows, to him the breath of life.

CCVIII

Ere that young minstrel sounded the dear note
Of thy deliverance by old Danube's tide,
Say, did such memories round thee gathering float,
Such marshall'd pageants of imperial pride—
King of the battle, champion true and tried?
Didst thou once more in van of armies tower,
With all the chiefs of Christendom allied?
Thyself thy first in place and pride and power,
Lion of Europe's war—crowned chivalry's bright flower.

CCIX

Shame on thy treacherous and vindictive foe,
On him of Austria who with locks and chains,
Worse vengeance than the death-inflicting blow,
Sought to subdue the free blood in those veins,
Tame the eagle's glance from Heaven's cerulean plains,
Teach the wild panther to forget his bound,
But hope not in the Soul where freedom reigns
To quench the spark, which mid the gloom profound
Starts, streams into a sun, the sole that smiles around.

CCX

'Twas quenched not in that brave and generous mind,
True to the royal instincts of its line,
That princely spirit, that long chafed and pined
But sank not, stooped not, deigned not to resign
Its towering independence, free and fine,
But looked stern fortune in the face, and dared
All dangers and dismay, that could combine
To crush and conquer—from the worst still spared,
Dishonour's foul disgrace, which that true breast ne'er shared.

CCXI

But now the ruin and the rock recede,
Three lowly towns attract the stranger's eye,
Stein, Krems and Mautern, prey of the iron Swede
And bold Hungarian, in the old days gone by;
And next monastic Gottwich reared on high,
On the hill's crest, just glimpsed from Danube's tide,
Soothes back the thoughts to peace and piety;
The past's dark phantoms start on every side,
Crowding on the eye and mind, with legend-lore allied.

CCXII

Yon plain round Tulln—yon still and peaceful plain.
Beheld the brave Sobieski in past years
His forces with the forces of Lorraine
Combine, and lead the united swords and spears;
For see, the Infidel presumptuous rears
The crescent near a city of the cross;
But to the rescue press, with stormy cheers,
The avengers; the unbaptized reap shame and loss
Nor more their sabres wave, their streaming horse-tails toss.

CCXIII

The imperial city of the land shall cease
To quail and tremble in her pale dismay;
They come with hope, with succour and with peace,
The staunch defenders of her sceptered sway.
The bearded Ottoman shall rue this day;
Confusion swoops upon the crescent's hosts;
The gallant Poles and their brave Peers make way:
Let the Infidels forego their threatening boasts,
And in inglorious flight reseek their barbarous coasts.

CCXIV

Down with the crescent! up with the honoured cross!
The conquering,—the victorious evermore!
The embroidered streamers lose their silken gloss,
The jewelled housings steam, soaked through with gore—
The Allah shouts rise feebler than before;
Gilt with unhallowed blood your lances shine,
Ye true defenders of the faith, who swore
To die or to deliver! tower and shrine
Spared from spoliation's clutch, bless your heaven-blessed design.

CCXV

To that imperial city came he now,
The thoughtful traveller on his wandering way,
But heavier grew his heart—more bent his brow;
As though of some deep pang he groaned the prey,
Threading those close-thronged streets, for he would stray
By rock and river, and through wood and wild,
Not thus mid human homes, nor did delay
Long in that tower-topped forest—but exiled
To lonelier scenes went forth, where beckoning Nature smiled.

CCXVI

Once more he freely moved, he breathed—he lived!—
Clouds, sunshine, showers, and streams, and leaves and dews,
From each and all the enjoyment he received,
Which she is ever skilful to diffuse;
His inmost heart reflected back her hues:
Bared he his breast to her bright terrors still!
Her storms and savage aspects loath to lose,
His brow unto her beauty!—that could fill
With freshness and with life a spirit doomed to ill!

CCXVII

The close and clamouring town he left behind,
And bent his steps toward Styria's hills of pride:
How Heaven and Nature rushed through all his mind
With glad and glowing change of time and tide!
Then passed he the antique Gothic cross, beside
The broad highway; there, those who love such view
Should turn to eye the city, and abide
A space to catch its tortuous winding's clue,
There tower, fane, steeple, bridge, the broad arena strew.

CCXVIII

Not such loved he—nor paused he—nor threw back
One look of loving admiration there,
But gazed on-looking on his forward track,
As though he fled the demons of despair—
The howling furies of our human care,
And asked the kindlier elements to bring
Their restlessness or rage—so these should spare
The heart that none could waste but all could wring,
Turning to wormwood's worst each full and staunchless spring.

CCXIX

Better to feel not, best to all forego
The wish to feel, and be in feeling blest.
Oh! we were safer from the inroads of woe,
Would we but chase such longings from the breast,
And sigh our vain fantastic hopes to rest:
'Tis the over-love of happiness that proves
The source of bitterest sorrows unsuppressed:—
Not what we lose we mourn with weeping loves,
But what we ne'er have gained, 'tis this that melts and moves.

CCXX

That melts that moves still the unresisting heart,
Whose phantom-peopled Paradise appears,
Not what it is—the work of its own art,
(Alas! that self-creation more endears!)
But something true and real, and all our fears
And all our hopes hang there, for ever there;
And we track out our wayward path with tears,
And waste on the Eden of our long despair,
Feelings and faculties, which we but ill can spare.

CCXXI

What is this happiness we so desire?
It is the distant Heaven, the unseen, th'unknown—
It is the eternity, that doth inspire
The immortal thoughts, that have uprisen alone,
Like suns above the horizon; we have grown
Maddened in their pursuit—if found, we find
That, like the horizon, happiness hath flown,
To leave but those fond phantasies behind,
Dreams and delusions bright—proud children of the mind.

CCXXII

Who sighs for happiness, so sighs for Heaven!
Nor knoweth what he needeth in that sigh;
Never to us can this on earth be given,
For what is happiness? my Soul, reply!
The Heavens, and the everlasting Thrones on high;
It is the stars and the angels! and it is
The Eternal Presence in all purity,
The new-made Soul's crowned glory of great bliss,
It is the other life! for which we yearn in this.

CCXXIII

Now through Theresienstadt, a peaceful town,
He wended, thinking of its founderess fair,
That far-famed Empress-queen, whom Fortune's frown
But sped a loftier, stabler state to share;
'Twas she who named it, she who gathered there
A groupe of Tyrol's high-souled mountaineers,
To bless the soil with husbandry's meet care;
Fair Queen, who all victorious in thy tears,
Unsheathed ten thousand swords, to dazzle back thy fears!

CCXXIV

Fair Queen! resistless in thy conquering grief,
Robed in thy mourning robes of regal woe,
Proud paladin and peer and crested chief,
Burned for each sigh of thine to strike a blow,
And lay the chasteners of thy triumphs low:
Sacred thy sorrow made thy mighty cause;
Plumed vengeance swift o'ertook the baffled foe;
Their land, their fair liege lady, and their laws,
These whet the yet white sword each panting warrior draws.

CCXXV

Praise to that Magyar chivalry of old!
That woman-weakness their best strength uproused;
To shield the gentle proved they trebly bold,
And valiantly her falling cause espoused:
True honour in their homes and hearts was housed,
In which the dove and the eagle finely meet,
Bright bravery at its brightest; dulled and drowsed,
Those proud emotions now forsake their seat
In man's chill'd breast, to fall at blank Indifference' feet.

CCXXVI

Ere long another prosperous town appears,
Which much of wakening interest, too, enchains;
Neustadt, called “the ever-faithful” in past years,
Right loyal under all the Austrian reigns;
Its Gothic chapel, rich in deep-dyed panes,
Which set the light on fire—all the air a blaze,
The imperial Maximilian's earth contains,
And Dietrichstein, tried counsellor through the old days,
There at his master's feet for ever moveless stays.

CCXXVII

All rest and peace be to the imperial Earth,
Far lowlier tombs have touched with loftier might;
Yet this can bring salubrious thoughts to birth!
Proud sun, thy beams seem changed here on their flight,
Rainbows and gorgeous meteors, strangely bright,
Before us start to glory: 'tis as though
A molten firmament streamed down in sight,
And did in rains of fire and lightnings flow,
With such a burning pride the lustrous shadows glow.

CCXXVIII

Turn to where once the ancient church arose,
Destroyed by flames, that sacrilegious spread
Through all the hallowed building—there repose
The ashes of the truly sovereign dead!
Champions of freedom, for her sake who bled,
Zrini and Frangipani; what were these?—
Traitors? no, Patriots! to her proud cause wed;
Rebels? no, Martyrs! drank they to the lees
Death's black and bitter wine, but 'scaped worse tyrannies!

CCXXIX

Through Styria's mountain scenery Conrad passed:—
What noble prospects opened to his view!
How fresh the keenness of the rushing blast!
How soared the hills into the summer's blue
Of those o'erarching skies, that seemed to strew
Their very clouds in love upon their crests,
And gain above them a yet lovelier hue!
To Freedom's unadulterated breasts
Congenial are such scenes, these prove their worthiest guests.

CCXXX

Worthy the guests of the majestic hosts,
Even the earth-subliming mountains! how the eye
Unshackled soars up to the ethereal coasts
To which they point, the free heart bounds on high,
And in one moment lives into the sky!—
Triumphal show in truth—proud scene, thou art!
A thousand Thrones—yet but One Majesty,
To many masses these shall seem to part,
But one dread pyramid-pomp from earth to heaven they start.

CCXXXI

Yes! the heavens know them as one pomp—but one,
The mingling, mighty, far-extending chain,
The sweeping stream of mountains!—to the sun
Upsoaring through the whole length of their reign,
True! like foamed billows seems their snowy mane!
Those broken waves still form one glorious sea!—
Those Alps and Appenines and Andes, plain
And wood o'erlooking, do they seem to be,
A myriad varying forms, yea!—but One sovereignty.

CCXXXII

Fair is the valley of the Murz, whose waves
Instil fresh hues of beauty where they pass;
With quivering splendour that clear water paves
The picturesqueness of the scene, the glass
It grows of ruined castle-hold, that was
Once proud and strong, and hut and hamlet fair,
And consecrated church, whose shadowy mass
Almost beguiles the passing thoughts to prayer,
Valley of Waters! soft, breathes thy salubrious air.

CCXXXIII

Onward, still onward!—Gratz is left behind,
Where dwelt in exile sad a throneless king,
Another Bourbon 'monished to unbind
The circlet from his brows—and wide to fling
The mantle of his state away, and wring
All regal memories from his mind—nor more
To name himself that weary, wretched thing,
A monarch! such as he had seemed before,
Oh! happy in his woe, that such vile masque was o'er.

CCXXXIV

Aye! he was bade to wring and to erase
All regal memories from his mind, save one,
(And that would haunt him to his resting-place,)
That thorns and tares sprout thickliest round the throne,
Ripening to rank luxuriance, all o'ergrown,
And paving every path of sovereign power:—
Did Gaul's tenth Charles in banishment, alone,
Revolve these things, methinks, through many an hour
Heart-deep that keen thought struck, when his was empire's dower!

CCXXXV

Such thoughts must long and often have pursued
The heirs and the wearers of the lily flower,
And tamed them from their royalty of mood,
And made the horizon of their prospects lower,
And canopied with clouds the princely bower.
Gallant and brave and generous is the Gaul,
But ever-fevering after fame and power,
Creature and child of impulses, whose call
Too promptly well obeyed, oft goads him to his fall.—

CCXXXVI

And to the fall of others,—for he knows
No pause when the idols of his soul advance
That claim, which he ne'er dreameth to oppose,
But sets at once in rest his thirsty lance,—
Selfish in patriotism—himself is France.
His glory is her greatness—his fair land
He loves for his fair fame's sole sake—perchance
'Twas thus even that the avenging red right hand,
Through those three throneless days, waved wide fierce Discord's brand!

CCXXXVII

What are those idols of the Gallic soul?
All life's poor nothings—Glory, Honour, Fame,
That vanity which links the worthless whole,
That breath which blows about some hollow name,
That breath, the cloud, the rainbow, and the dream,
To him these, these things are the all in all,
And life seems set out in a gilded frame,
Till Nature grows an Art, and Glory's call
Thunders down Duty's claim, with her still voice and small.

CCXXXVIII

Past the wild rock, high soaring o'er the plain,
Whence Tycho Brahe sent up his eyes and soul
Unto the burning worlds of midnight's reign,
And bade them yield up, as an unfurled scroll,
Full many a secret, armed with strong controul;
Past the steep Platchberg hills, whose range divides
The valleys of the Drave and Mur, which roll
On either side their glad exulting tides,
Speeds Conrad, while more bright the southing sun now rides.

CCXXXIX

He pines, he pants, to reach the Italian clime,
That purple Land of Promise to the heart;
He seeks Earth's garden for the second time,
While warmer wishes, livelier longings start;
Since their's are memories that can never part
Who once that lavish, lovely soil have trod,
Where present blends with past, with Nature, Art,
Where a world's fragments seem to heap the sod,
Where the air is heaven, the heavens, all sun, the sun a god!

CCXL

Now came the traveller unto Marburg's town,
Built on the banks of Drave's blue flowing stream;
The earth-purpling vine beside its walls is grown,
Which seems to draw from far, heaven's holiest beam,
And drink into its heart that sunny gleam,
Until it glows out into grapes, fair strung
Like deep-dyed pearls upon each bough they seem!
Here a Sclavonian race have dwelt for long,
The Wends,—thus interspersed the native tribes among.

CCXLI

Cilly, by Roman Claudian long ago
Founded, hath therefore some acknowledged claim
Unto the passer's notice:—Time may mow
A thousand nations down with all their fame,
But shall survive them all that Roman name!
For nobly were these more than men inspired,
People of Princes! born all earth to tame
With one majestic soul sublimely fired,
Streamed through the world that soul, unvanquished and untired.

CCXLII

Hence grew that world all Roman! heaven and earth
Grew glorious with their shadow—Nature's boast
Was in that lordliest and that mightiest birth;
Each name a history, and each arm a host,
Each man an empire in himself: nor most
Their mighty conquests our deep praise command,—
They were the first of freemen; never lost
May their example be, but through each land
Still spread as some bright flame by winds exhaustless fanned.

CCXLIII

Now the first hamlet in Carniola gleams,
With all its clustered dwellings on the sight;
Adieu to Styria with its hills and streams,
Those soaring high, these led like veins of light:
Meandering o'er Earth's frownless forehead bright,
Near Laybach doth a noble river pour
Its blue waves joyously, in freedom's might,
Whose banks are beaming all one emerald floor,
Whose sands seem shining fair, as rife with golden store.

CCXLIV

'Tis a proud stream, the sparkling Save—how clear
Those happy waters, wandering far and free,
A beauteous boundary! many a long, long year
Have these been 'twixt the land of Soldanrie
And this fair Christian country;—can it be
That these smooth tides should mark division deep,
Making two Worlds of One Humanity?
Yet how their placid mien serene they keep,
Like one who dreams of love, and smiles in his sweet sleep.

CCXLV

A hallowed pillar Laybach doth possess,
Much cherished by each wand'ring peasant boor,
Who to our Lady doth his prayers address,—
Of yore the bright compeller of the Moor;
'Tis to her honour raised—for these assure,
That here when the infidel invaders came,
Her statue led the hosts, in numbers fewer,
Against them—strong to vanquish and to tame,
Therefore these stones were raised to her most blessed name.

CCXLVI

But Laybach in traditions strange abounds!
'Tis said that the Argonauts and Jason came
And founded this fair town:—if this astounds,
Hear how the tale is told—their one great aim,
The golden fleece, achieved, to cloud their fame
The Colchians sought, and pressed them hard and close!—
Across the Euxine, up the Danube stream,
And Save they sped—that through these regions flows,
Then landing here, a town, y'cleped Naupactus rose.

CCXLVII

Their vessels leaving, passed they overland
Unto the sweet shores of the Adrian sea;
There labouring bravely with industrious hand,
They built fresh barks, which launching gallantly,
They called on prosperous breezes fair and free,
To speed them back to their proud homes—wild tale!
Yet something pleasing in its phantasy:
We love old legend-haunted spots to hail,
Although such legends hang on tenure slight and frail.

CCXLVIII

Look on the Laybach river, bursts it forth
(Like Pallas when sublimely strong she rose)
Perfect, and ready armed from its first birth
With all its watery powers at once it flows,
And joyously it rolls and fair it shows,
Silvering the shunshine round it on its way;
'Tis deemed a subterraneous course it goes,
Concealed awhile from the glad light of day,
Till thus at once it starts into its sweeping sway.

CCXLIX

Bleak frown the thousand-caverned Julian Alps,
In haughty, angry barrenness they frown,
Rearing on high their bold and rugged scalps,
Not like their namesake's, wreathed with laurelled crown,
Nor with thick foliage decked nor verdure strown,
Fissured and rent and riven they tower on high,
Harshly to gaze on this stern landscape down,
As with an icy glance and stony eye!—
Let ours uplifted be beyond them to the sky.

CCL

There must we seek for summer and her bloom,
For now the Karst, that bare and arid track
Yawns round us, where all neighbouring things assume
A lifeless aspect—many a thirsty crack
Gapes in the rocks, that glare the sunshine back
Full painfully upon the shrinking sense,
For vegetation's garb they sorely lack,
And fling the burning rays with flash intense!
Like sharpened darts of flame they seem thrown keenly thence.

CCLI

Yea, sharpened on those rocks, the sunbeams seem,
Whetted upon their whiteness seems the light,
Till like to keen forked lightnings smites the beam
With dazzling power and overwhelming might:
Is the place laid beneath some burning blight?
What rugged steeps, all desolate and rude,
Grate on the very eye and shock the sight!
What shattered masses in disorder strewed
Grind on the unwilling sense in this strange solitude.

CCLII

'Tis as a waste of ashes, and the air
Itself is troubled, as the Earth appears—
For here the savage Bora's blast doth scare
The lonely wayfarer, and fills with fears
The sturdy waggoner too, who cautious steers
His rude conveyance of unwieldy size
Along these wilds, where little soothes or cheers—
Bared to the intemperance of the inclement skies,
He with his staggering brutes but ill its power defies.

CCLIII

But ere the traveller treads this dreary part,
One of great Nature's wonders should be viewed:
The cave of Adelsberg, which mocks man's art,
Magnificently strange and wild and rude;
Glorious the dome's impressive solitude,
A mighty hall where rushing waters roll,
Paving the floor with crystal—here might brood
That pilgrim long who loves with all his soul
Nature in her lone reign, and hails her fair controul.

CCLIV

Yet this is but the threshold of the rest!
For chambers crowded upon chambers claim
New homage, while fresh splendours each invest,
And all are as another and the same,
But now like columns built to prop the frame
Of some colossal and cathedral pile,
The natural pillars rise, and rise to shame
Their rivals, shadowing the majestic aisle
With their proportions vast, compared with these how vile!

CCLV

Yet further penetrate in the awful cave,
A cluster now of slenderer columns stands,
Transparent as the spars from the ocean's wave,
Fantastic as the banyan's straight charmed wands,
(The pride and glory of dusk Indian sands,)
And now rich draperies, light and lucid, spread:
This pomp stalactical in sooth demands
A long deep gaze; where'er you pause or tread,
Some lovelier wonder shines, beneath or overhead.

CCLVI

A brilliant scene, miraculously fair,
Beyond all works of genii kings supreme!
A palace of Queen Nature, past compare
With aught except the mystery of a dream,
When forth the fancy's magic chambers stream
Unnumbered shapes and shadows, glorious all,
And lights o'erpowering round us gathering beam,
And common day seems lifted like a pall
From the fair face of things where gleams more dazzling fall.

CCLVII

In the bright month of love-inspiring May,
The assembled peasant each successive year
Meet and dance down the stars, and sing away
The silence and the solemn quiet here;
Then long resounds their strain of buoyant cheer,
Shout, laugh, and mirth, and music's voice awake
The cavern's slumbering echoes, deep and clear,
Until the thousand columns heave and shake
The pendant fretted roof, and radiant pavements quake.

CCLVIII

Conrad is speeding swiftly on his road,
Nor heeds the wild and savage dreariment,
Around him spread, for very hope doth goad
His footsteps thus to shores Ausonian bent;
With all his griefs a gleam of joy is blent,
So, like the great Bard's cloud, they are silver-lined,
And to the night of his despair have lent
A trembling lustre; in so dark a mind
Faint lights smile into stars—no sun is there to blind

CCLIX

Scarce doth he mark the cheerless landscape round,
Yet with some sympathy it well might move,
Was not his heart like that unfruitful ground,
Parched, withered, by the scorching breath of love—
Of love and hate and sorrow,—till to rove
Was made his only rest, his sole repose!
To scorn must his dark consolation prove,
And what?—himself!—his feelings and his woes,—
'Tis well continuance lacks, and all draws to its close!

CCLX

Now the wild way is almost past and o'er,
The rocks receding seem to melt away,
As troubled waves that waste upon the shore
Into a little foam-wreath, while their spray
Just sparkling dew-like in the smiling ray
Whitens around them to a tender shroud:
It is the soft hour of the ebb of day,
Yet all around the likeness of a cloud
Is passing from the scene, that lay beneath it bowed.

CCLXI

Italy! thou art rising like a Sun
Upon the Scene around and on the Soul!—
Italy!—is thy reign of glory done?—
Not till thy heavens are withered like a scroll,
Not till thy mountains like their Lauwine roll
Down to destruction from their heights of pride,
Not till thy rivers break their banks' control—
And sweep o'er thy sweet land from side to side,
Italy! when thou fail'st—'tis Nature's self hath died!

CCLXII

Italy—Italy—thou'rt rising now—
Upon the Scene and Soul—and Sense and Sight—
Like to a sun that never knows to bow
Unto the chill dominion of the night—
Another lustre dawns along the light!—
A breath of inspiration sows the air
With precious, precious thoughts—and now a might,
A pomp of poetry—a passion there
Lays to its panting depths the pierced existence bare.

CCLXIII

Our hearts upon the horizon recognize
Some streaks and tints of thee, thou matchless land!
Thou risest on us in the empurpling skies—
Thou risest from the enchanted ground and bland,
Thine all-poetic atmosphere that fanned
So many spirits into one broad blaze
Of mightiest genius, boundless in command—
Trembles about the heart!—thou Sun!—whose rays
Are Soul—whose smiles are Love—whose twilight's worth all days.

CCLXIV

Still other hints of thy sweet neighbourhood
Come with a shock of rapture on the sense—
And all attune to hope and bliss the mood—
The vines spread trailing o'er their rose-framed fence,
The flower up-springs—fresh fragrance streams from thence—
Language is melting into melody—
But yet 'tis all expectance and suspense;
We half-create, with the eager ear and eye,
That which is still to come—Perfection's Harmony!

CCLXV

Most sweet forerunnings of a great delight,
Delicious presages of pleasure's reign!—
Dawnings of joys that grow into their might,
Still momently, and thrill through heart and brain,
(To medicine all the fevers of their pain)—
Not yet—not yet the golden clime is won,
But lengthened links of the all-electric chain
Of thy deep fascinations have begun
To twine round thought and sense, crowned Daughter of the Sun!

CCLXVI

And soon and suddenly thy glory pours
Upon the gladdened mind and raptured sight,
The triumph of thy beauty-breathing shores
Beams out upon us in its thrilling might,
When first is gained the upland's soaring height!—
And the Adrian Sea and shore, the Ausonian plain,
The out-jutting headlands, and the horizon bright,
Where the Alps of Frioul stretch their cloud-capped chain,
And the Istrian mountains swell—speak of the enchanted reign.

CCLXVII

The sun was sinking in the crimsoned west;
A rain of fire seemed pouring down on earth,
Gilding the thick throng'd harbour of Trieste,
Where ships from the East and West and South and North
Were anchored, with their tall masts gleaming forth
In the air's sunny conflagration there!
Like pillars of pure gold of priceless worth,
More near at hand—the scene was, oh! how! fair;
The South—the South—did all its hues of Eden wear.

CCLXVIII

Vines, chesnuts, olives veil'd the downward slope,
With all their mixed luxuriance, full and fair:
'Twas like the sudden birth of laughing Hope;
Even from the blighted bosom of Despair,
Where all was desolate and cold and bare,
Seem'd all exuberant, with exhaustless pride;
Betwixt two Suns did flash the o'er-dazzling air,
For Earth with such reflections keen was dyed,
Yon Sun a Bridegroom hailed in Joy an equal Bride.

CCLXIX

'Twas on this hour, to breathless rapture given,
The Visionary did that hill descend,
With eyes as fixed as ever saint's on Heaven,
On all that beauty that around did blend,
In deep-unfolding glory without end;
His thoughts were adoration!—and his Soul
A sense of more than ecstasy:—to bend
O'er that bright-scene—his feelings' shining goal,
Shed peace and joy, and thrilled through his existence' whole!

CCLXX

Look on those waves—the sunset makes them burn
Into the fullest, deepest dye of blood;
The sun seems emptying there his drooping urn,
So richly doth his glory o'er them brood,
Like light leaves of some golden-autumn wood
Those waves seem fluttering in that fire of light,
Or like the quick thoughts of such rapture's mood,
Dazzling themselves upon their meteor flight,
Shivering with splendours keen—they shudder on the sight!

CCLXXI

Now thro' the busy streets he wends his way
Of this fair merchant-city and fresh Tyre!—
Men of all countries in their mixed array,
With motley aspects, on each hand inspire
Quick curiosity—whose restless fire
Is fanned by all things here!—What barques are those?
What costly freights have their prows wafted nigher?
Are they from coasts where Afric's palm-tree grows,
Or where the wealth of worlds from mines Peruvian flows?

CCLXXII

Or from sweet islands—gardens of the Main,
Young Ocean Edens, beautiful and glad,
In lovely groupes, that o'er the waters reign
In glorious furniture of Nature clad,
Mingling with low sounds of the sea-wave sad,
The voices of their joy and of their power,
From wood and hill and vale—perchance they had
Those proud barques anchored, where with leaf and flower
They scent the seaward gale, and make the bay a bower.

CCLXXIII

Now for the loveliest city of the clime
Conrad embarked in evening's shadowy hour;
It seemed as 'twere a meet and fitting time
To seek that lone, pale Phantom of all Power!—
The many-clustering stars began to shower
Their luxury of immortal light around,
Bright flowering into fulness, while their dower
Enriches the air and earth, but fairest crowned
Are those proud waves where rides the voyager Venice-bound.

CCLXXIV

Thus homeward-bound his heart appeared to be,
For there its natural, native clime should seem,
Since 'twas one passion—yet all phantasy,
The fervour and the fever of a dream;
His spirit basked there in each glistening beam,
The purple heavens grew all one Sun of Stars!—
And well the sea glassed back each trembling gleam,
White glanced the track of their careering cars,
O'er that smooth-breasted tide, whose peace no trouble mars.

CCLXXV

A night of holiest beauty—such a night
As makes the wretched half forget his woe,
Which melts and dwindles dimly in his sight,
In this triumphant soul-enkindling glow—
The currents of the spirit freely flow,
The peace past understanding dwells awhile
Upon the mind, e'en in its chains below,
As though to teach us how the seraphs smile,
How we shall yet exult when snatched from Earth's bleak isle.

CCLXXVI

For not from earthly circumstance—for not
From Fortune's shiftings to her kindlier mood,
Not from the linkings to a happier lot,
Springs that celestial fruit of mystic good—
Direct from Heaven, o'er us it comes to brood;
Comes as those stars come—without cause revealed,
At once they stand where nought before them stood,
In silence marshalled take they thus the field,
Each like a warrior bright with silver spear and shield.

CCLXXVII

Thus do these sweet impressions wake and start
Within the Soul without apparent cause,
And smile the very aching from the heart,
Till conquered Sorrow half her sting withdraws;
No more the worm of many a memory gnaws!
But all is quelled to quiet, pure and deep,
Which tenderly surprises—gently awes
That spirit, whose sealed thoughts e'en learned to weep,
In other days of woe—or waking or asleep!

CCLXXVIII

Bright beatific Stars!—your radiant hours
Are those wherein the deepest thoughts awake,
We walk as 'twere among your throned powers,
And love our planet more for your proud sake,
Its sister-splendours—ye that troubled, shake,
Trembling—all over trembling with the might
Of Adoration's joy—that seems to make
Your whole existence—worlds of holy light,
Oh! Beatific Stars—that make all Heaven of Night!

CCLXXIX

And what were Conrad's thoughts while night and sea
And heaven were round him deeply who shall tell?—
Count me the clouds careering fast and free,
While strong the winds in gusts of triumph swell;
Count me the dew-drops on the flowers that dwell
In Morning's hour of young and rosy pride,
Reckon the spring-leaves and the sea-sands tell—
But for the thoughts that in the heart abide,
He numbereth them alone who numbereth all beside.

CCLXXX

Infinite is their name—their nature is
Like to their number—hidden, unrevealed,
Their labyrinthine path we still must miss,
In complication's darkest depths concealed—
But when he looked up to that argent field,
Swarming with worlds, his answering spirit rose,
And mighty thoughts did in great triumph wield,
Albeit with all the stillness of repose,
For their profoundest stream in peaceful quiet flows.

CCLXXXI

Nature and all her beauty—Time and all
His ravages and changes—Life and Death,
And man, but raised awhile to feel his fall,
His hope a bubble—and his life a breath,
His proudest crown, like to a snowy wreath,
That melteth at the touching and is not—
These things revolved the Wanderer, then, beneath
Those eloquent stars—and these Things are to Thought
What Space is to those Worlds—there all unchecked they shot!

CCLXXXII

They shot from dream to dream—from power to power,
Growing in glory and increased in might,
In that prevailing and impressive hour,
That hour of Stars and Silence and the Night,
With the Sea for their comrade—blue and bright;
Dark blue—and deeply strangely bright it was—
From forth it seemed to break a purple light,
While those sweet star-beams made it as their glass,
And gently-crisping winds did o'er its surface pass!

CCLXXXIII

But now night parteth—and her shadows flee,
Two suns seemed rising on the soul and sight,
Two suns of glory proud o'er the Adrian Sea,
Venice on one side—the orient orb of light
Upspringing on the other, dazzling bright!
Venice! thou'rt burning o'er the waves serene,
Like to a golden fire—thy marble white
Is turned to rosy splendours—matchless scene,
Venice! in sooth thou art of earth's crown'd cities Queen.

CCLXXXIV

By Art and Nature art thou crowned and made
Consummate in perfection—and that hour
Beheld thee as in pristine pride arrayed,
In the full triumph of thine ancient dower—
No ruin might be traced in fane or tower,
For distance and that dazzling veil then cast
Around thee, woven of rich rays, that shower
The lustres of their radiance free and fast—
Concealed the wrongs of Time—and all the wreck and waste.

CCLXXXV

Venice! thou apparition of delight,
Hung 'twixt the blue sea and the bluer sky,
The stars are wreathed round thee in pomp by night,
Till thou'rt thyself one gorgeous galaxy;
The sunshine and the purple, when the hours fly
On dazzling wings of day—most glorious here!
I may not stay, but how unchageably
A portion of my rapt existence near,
To thy deep heart shall lie, distinct and full and clear.

CCLXXXVI

Thus inly cried the Visionary, then,
Beholding all that beauty's peerless pride,
And his heart hailed again, and yet again,
That crowning city fair of the Adrian tide,
Nor for the bright Past at that hour he sighed,
The Present seemed too full of glory's truth,
To let him muse on all that there had died—
Power, Freedom, Fame, a Nation's Soul, in sooth,
Which thirteen centuries made like to one vigorous youth.

CCLXXXVII

The morn—the sun-burst—and the glittering sea,
The sheen of marble, shimmering o'er the wave,
The pomp of domes in all their bravery,
Whose glowing shadows those wide waters pave,
The homage of deep admiration crave,
And crave not vainly, for awhile the mind
Lightens with living thoughts o'er Power's crowned grave,
Or lashes up like some strong-pinioned wind,
The treasures—triumphs, wrecked—of yore here strown and shrined.

CCLXXXVIII

But this lasts not—a voice is in the ear,
A shadowy hand is writing on the heart—
In melancholy language, sadly clear—
Pronouncing how thou lost and fallen art—
How one by one thy glories did depart—
Most famous once, and fairest evermore
Among the cities!—and we wakening start
As that wild Wanderer did—the vision o'er,
The glad dream vanished far—and so we touch the shore.

CCLXXXIX

Yet though one dream must die—a thousand rise,
And hold us in their fetters light and fair—
We see thy mighty wreck before our eyes,
Deplore the desolation darkening there;
But yet the intoxication of thine air,
The enchantment of thine aspect's loveliness,
Bring new illusions to efface our care—
And these did Conrad's lonely bosom bless,
Till thus he thought by words his feelings to express:—

CCXC

“Venice! thou Vision! who can look on thee
Nor deem thee the creation of the hour,
Thus rising in thy beauty from the sea,
Like Cytherea's self—with more of power—
More pride, Cybele-like in mien! thy dower
Was glorious and was excellent of yore;
Now thou'rt defenceless as a broken bower!
City of Heaven and of the Ocean—for
To these thou dost belong—Earth lends thee scarce a shore.

CCXCI

“Bright City of the Heavens and the Ocean! since
Of these thou seem'st the comrade and compeer,
Alas! how changed, since many a subject prince
Bow'd down the knee, or paid the tribute here;
Yet, in thy desolation, oh! how dear!—
How exquisite and fair in thy decay!
Thine aspect in the waters imaged clear,
Scarce lovelier shows than memories of thy sway
Of old,—upon our souls, writ with thy sunniest ray!

CCXCII

“Hadst thou three hundred triumphs like the Rome?
Nay! thine were numbered only by thine years
And days and hours of freedom! from thy tomb
Arises tremblingly a voice of tears,
Whose melancholy sweetness more endears;
It saith, ‘I was and am not: I am bowed
Beneath Oppression's rule of slavish fears,
The thunders of my strength submiss I shroud
In Servitude's base thrall—and dull Subjection's cloud.’

CCXCIII

“Didst thou to Earth thy cries of victory shout
To droop in such a silence?—didst indeed
Spring from the ocean, like the waterspout,
To sink again within it like the weed—
Unknown—unnoticed—while a broken reed
Thine ancient sceptre proves, in thy disgrace;
Earth seems to wear a chain till thou art freed—
Oh! thou so long the first i' the highest place—
Thou who ennobled kings with thy august embrace!”

CCXCIV

His steps the Wanderer now full thoughtful bent
Unto the Dogeless palace of her pride,
And o'er the silent Giant's Staircase leant,
Where many were enthroned—where one erst died,
He who would fain be the tyrannicide;
But failed—and paid the price—his grey-haired head,
Which rolled, gore-stained, down those proud steps and wide;
And vainly 'twas he sunk—in vain he bled—
Faliero!—Freedom's friends thy fall admonished.

CCXCV

Along the Bridge of Sighs then Conrad past,
To the dark dungeons of the olden days,
While rushing memories crowd upon him fast,
And yearning pity on his spirit preys—
For those who threaded those detested ways
Of yore—to add to black Destruction's mass,
And sink unknown—unmarked by blame or praise,
Like Dante's realm infernal—this dread pass
Bade men leave Hope behind—Despair's own path it was.

CCXCVI

Graves of a living death! your aspects make
The chilling flesh creep, and the blood stand still,
And the heart sink in faintness as 'twould break—
Each hair erect itself e'en as a quill,
With white-lipped horror's passion—such things will
Reverse the orders of existence so,
And all the mind with untried terrors fill!
Could man for man sow such dire seeds of woe?
Why would he turn this world into a hell below?

100

CCXCVII

The hundred-palaced City, throned in state,
Upon her hundred isles of beauty there!—
The glorious sea for her triumphal gate,
And her proud bulwarks too, which still must wear
A mien impregnable and haughty air
Of strong defence, though she be chained and bound,
Augustly sad and desolately fair—
Alas! her once-brave lords no more are found!
How the ocean Cæsars sank—pierced by too base a wound.

CCXCVIII

'Twas the high heart first felt it—that first sank—
Have not all nations fallen—been suicides?
Have they not all, through foul Corruption rank,
Through over-luxury waned?—whate'er betides
The worst is from within—'tis there abides
The worm that gnaws to wreck and ruin's blight,
War's hissing dragon, who the Siroc rides
Of his hot, sulphury breath in vain shall smite,
Where that worm hath not sapped the strong foundation's might.

CCXCIX

Venice! 'twas thou thyself that darkly brewed
Thy cup of trembling—thou thine own worst foe—
Jarred by home discords and internal feud,
'Twas thine own hand that struck the heaviest blow,
Must it for evermore be thus below?—
Proud city! once raised high o'er all compeers,
How liest thou, crushed beneath thy bitterest woe,
While thou dost brood in trembling and in tears,
O'er thousand cankering wrongs—and trebly thousand fears.

101

CCC

For fears and terrors ever dwell with those
Who crouch beneath Submission's shameful shield,
And take for masters those that should be foes,
And so for ignominious safety yield,
Nor seek the weapons of defence to wield,
Nor wave the banners of defiance wide;
Where such base peace is signed, such compact sealed,
'Tis then that terrors with distrust allied,
Smite, scourge the self-betrayed—the void of power and pride.

CCCI

All must be mourners who behold thee now,
All must be followers in thy train of tears—
Venice! with pale decline stamped on thy brow,
Rest of each loftier hope that warms and cheers—
Thine hundred isles—thy thirteen hundred years,
Seem darkened o'er by thy now shadowing woe;
'Twas thus foretold those sad-predicting seers,
Who measured out thy freedom's date below,
And saw too clearly far, beyond vain triumph's show.

CCCII

They saw the destiny that yet should come,
To thunder-strike thee—never more to rise!—
Thou made the place—once glorious freedom's home—
Where crouching vassals come to monarchize,
And act their poor and petty tyrannies,
Until thy degradation is complete,
And thou art lost and lowered in thine own eyes,
Chained, bound upon thy once imperial seat—
Thus like a victim crowned—flung at thy master's feet!

102

CCCIII

Venice! sweet Venice!—where are those of old,
Their red right arms—their hearts of proof and pride?
These must have died—these were not bought and sold!—
How different 'twere if these were at thy side!
But there are none to guard and none to guide.
Venice! sweet Venice! they are lost, and thou!—
Grace, aid and rescue are to thee denied—
Couldst thou but shroud thy high and tow'ring brow,
Nor make a pageant proud of thy disgrace—as now.

CCCIV

Where are thy warriors?—they the tried and true,
Thine ocean chivalry's own matchless flower,
Who Europe's staunch defenders nobly grew,
While strove the Crescent o'er the Cross to tower!
Names that like nations swelled thy train to power,
What time thy proud hosts went abroad, to check
The haughty Ottomite, who sought for dower
Europe's best portions, and aspired to deck
His turban'd brows with spoils of thine and other's wreck.

CCCV

Where are the victories of thy palmy state,
The triumphs of Lepanto and the boast
Of thy long Candian years of siege?—thy great
Thy brave, thy good—of yore, a mighty host,
These scarce a memory now?—for ever lost:—
Dandolo, chastener of Byzantium's pride,
And Morosino, and yet more, who most
Upheld thy glory—shrink now from thy side,
In thy deep need—but 'tis, alone because they died!

103

CCCVI

In life they had not thus deserted thee,
They had not borne to see thee bowed to shame,
The terror of the Ottoman by sea,
Herself so abject now and weakly tame.
Oh! they had still maintained thine ancient fame,
And seen thee wear thy laurels undespoiled,
Worthy of thy past self and their great name;
Those that should be their heirs leave thee entoiled,
Thy wreaths all rent and sere—thy royal robings soiled.

CCCVII

How every day and hour doth thee destroy,
Once so sublime with towering victory—
When beautiful with glory and great joy,
Thou stood'st on thy dominion, strong and free,
And shoutedst loud across thy subject sea,
To subject lands, thy laws—indeed a queen;
But now thou'rt taught thyself e'en thus to be—
A vassal and a victim—and we lean,
In Consternation's trance, o'er thy contrasted scene!

CCCVIII

Contrasted with its past, most mournful change!
Oh! thou hast known the widest, last extremes
Of misery and of greatness—strange, how strange
That all the splendour from thy past that beams,
Lights not one spark of freedom's burning dreams,
In bosoms that should be her altars still;
Or if it doth, it dies in feeblest gleams,
Failing before the first opposing chill,
Not breathed on, blown, and spread by that strong wind—man's will.

104

CCCIX

Upon St. Mark's proud place the dreamer treads
The lion and the steeds there show the same
As when the might of thousand loftiest deeds
Shook them with stormy echoes of their fame—
How can these look upon the city's shame!
How can those noblest emblems of her might
Glare o'er her slavery—her subjection tame,
Seeing her splendours wane, light after light,
“Venice!” the Wanderer cried, still saddening at the sight.

CCCX

“Venice! long, long a dream of this deep heart,
Thou Queen of Sea and Sky and smiling Air,
I see thee now—and still a dream thou art!—
Most exquisitely strange—most brightly fair;
And yet, methinks, that visions fine and rare—
Phantasies radiant as the sun must fail
To match thy triumph—aye or even to share;
We stand with hushed, stilled spirit to inhale
The poetry of thy reality's rich tale.

CCCXI

“But, oh! thou Queen of Sorrows, who but there
Must trace a melancholy most profound,
Lady of Lamentations!—thy despair,
Like thy rare loveliness, can know no bound!
What Gordian fetters round thy heart are wound,
How art thou mocked and trampled on and wronged;
Thy great griefs are a deep that none may sound;
Yet here 'twas once earth's first and noblest thronged,
To hail and bless the sway, that sole to thee belonged.

105

CCCXII

“I leave thee—would that I could leave behind
Remembrances of all thy wrongs and woes,
And but retain within my pondering mind
The memories of thy mighty charms—even those
That evermore fresh powers, new spells disclose,
And hold us tranced in homage at thy side,
Even while we mourn thy present base repose,
The humiliation of thy pristine pride,
And all that makes thee one pale, lovely desert wide.

CCCXIII

“Depopulation, dearth, shame, ruin, chains,
All that should make thee to thine own waves cry,
‘Cover me!’ for the sin of such dark stains
Rests with the sufferer, who dares not defy,
But droops beneath the foul indignity!
Beautiful Venice! shall it still be so!
And shalt thou gradual sink and piecemeal die,
Till not a living voice o'er thee cry ‘Woe,’
Like a deserted wreck, dull, mouldering, cold and slow.

CCCXIV

“Beautiful Venice! fare thee well, farewell;
Yet may thy star from these dark clouds shine out,
And thou once more among the nations dwell,
Delivered from the fear, the pang, the doubt,
The sting, the self-reproach—vain prayer! without
One hope of bright fulfilment! it is done,
Those waves that circle thy fair towers about,
Sooner their 'customed course and paths shall shun,
Than thou resume the sway, whose measured race is run.”

107

PART II.

I

The Visionary on that eve embarked;
His soul grew silent with its deep adieu,
While Venice' lovely towers and domes he marked,
Fading away into the horizon's blue,
Sinking into the heart, as from the view!—
His thrice-told Venice suns and moons had flown,
Indeed apace—full swiftly hurried through,
And like too rich a treasure, but just shown,
Then snatched away, appeared that city bright and lone!

II

Melting in distance, as in long decay,
She hovereth faintly now 'twixt sea and sky,
Now seems she rapt to yon glad realms of day,
Now sunk in Ocean's pure transparency,
'Twixt the two purples trembling, airily,
As some bright star between two firmaments;
The voyager, gazing back with wistful eye,
His fond precipitation much repents,
While in emphatic sighs his bosomed thoughts find vents.

108

III

Swift speeds the bark upon her prosperous way,
Careering proudly o'er the sunny sea,
Though adverse breezes round her boldly play,
Straight on her course she goes, and firm and free;
Behind her, lines of foam gleam gallantly:
But, lo! what wreaths of sable smoke arise,
A shadowy streamer, whose wild folds shall be
Lost in the light of those delicious skies
That pour down rosy smiles upon all hearts and eyes.

IV

That sable serpent still unwinds its length,
Dark volume after volume, dense and deep,
As though uproused to its terrific strength,
It darted suddenly from close-coiled sleep,
And reared itself on high, up the aëry steep,
Golden with glistening sunshine, who shall say
That vessel, with her bold triumphant sweep,
Shows not a noble object—on her way
Passing with conquering force, and brooking no delay?

V

The giant Steam! how doth he now atchieve
Fresh triumphs, day by day yet more sublime,
And chains electric of communion weave,
'Twixt shore and distant shore—far clime and clime;
Space, season, earth and sea, wind, tide, and time
Confess the mighty Stranger's victories now,
Where Southern waves on palmy coasts soft chime,—
Where Northern billows rage, shall these avow
The Enchanter's boundless power, till all before him bow!

109

VI

The banner of his greatness floats unfurled,
And something new seems born beneath the sun!—
Rejoice, ye parted nations of the world,
His mighty magic yet shall make ye one!
Behold! some fleeting years and it is done:
Communion, knowledge, freedom, peace, shall spring,
Their race of bright utility to run,
Beneath his influence!—'tis a glorious thing!—
Man to himself hath made, as 'twere, an angel's wing.

VII

I see the vessel with her smoke-wreath'd shroud,
'Tis not the snow-white sails the winds have caught,
Swift urging her with motion free and proud,
With beauty fashioned and with graces fraught,
The Beautiful is to the soul and thought!—
Yon column of dense smoke that blots the sky
For me hath vast and wondrous visions brought,
In long array, unfolding to mine eye
Fair vistas opening out, where once frowned vacancy.

VIII

The savage desert blossoms like the rose,
The unknown land is tracked through every part,
The solitude with joyous life o'erflows,
And fresh existence brightly seems to dart
Through Nature's self—who, wakening soon shall start
To her full glory, to her last recess,
Revealed, detected, the universal heart
Long dormant sympathies shall deeply bless,
Each day shall raise and rear our Human Happiness!

110

IX

War's sway all withered, wasted from the world,
Earth's nations shall to love and peace resign;
And Superstition, from her strongholds hurled,
Shall cease her leaden fetters to entwine;
Where the untracked forests gloom shall spring the shrine,
A thousand altars blaze o'er the alien sod,
Where never echoed yet the name divine,
And Earth shall be of joy and hope the abode!
Mankind united grows, strong gathering to a God.

X

Blest into Christians, every tribe and race
Shall dwell in friendship's holiest bonds entwined,
And waked to knowledge, won to heavenly grace,
Their brethren-men their benefactors find;
Such be the imperial mastery of the mind!
And such the sacred tyranny of thought,
Whose chains that closeliest and most clinging bind,—
Bind but to freedom, by Truth's bright hand wrought,—
So be the enlightened world, touched, gladdened, trained, and taught.

XI

The vessel goes upon her stately way
Past Pola's amphitheatral remains,
Colossal reliques of the Romans' day,
Whose reliques shame all modern domes and fanes;
The majesty of Rome's great power still reigns,
The ashes of its empire flash more light,
More glory even in ruin it retains
Than present powers in their dominion's might,
All Time the Twilight seems, of that fallen sun most bright!

111

XII

The old amphitheatre looks towards the sea,
Now peaceful, as its own arena seems,
O'ergrown with thick, rank grass, wide waving free,
Round creviced walls, where many a wild flower teems,
And many a winding breeze shrill-whistling streams:
The thunder of a thousand voices rose
To shake these walls of old; but memory's dreams
Are softened down, while back her glance she throws
From such barbaric scenes as did this spot disclose.

XIII

'Tis on the dread magnificence and might,
The power and pride of that surpassing race,
Those conquerors, lords of Earth and sons of light,
She meditates in this deserted place,
Where they have left their long-enduring trace,
Even as the soul's trace on the unconscious clay,
(Which still seems stamped upon the lifeless face,
When death exults above his silent prey,)
Theirs on the chill, changed World, whence they have passed away!

XIV

Far on the view Dalmatia's coast extends,
Beneath the clearest and most smiling blue
That e'er wore heaven's fine arch; this softly blends
With the sunned Earth and sparkling waters' hue,
Glowing together on the gladdened view;
The sense emparadised, how fair the whole,
Our feelings seem their freshness to renew,
Our thoughts are soothed, those breakers of the soul,
That o'er life's bristling rocks with shocks tempestuous roll.

112

XV

On, on, and shines the sun with loving smiles,
Which round an atmosphere of gladness pour
Upon the quiet of Calypso's isles:
Who views the scene and deems the charm is o'er,
Which once that rosy, air-bewitching wore,
Now turn where rise, in towering masses piled,
The rugged mountains of the Albanian shore;
Beloved Albania! wildest of the wild,
Yet genial is her clime, her mountain-breezes mild.

XVI

Hail to her hills! stretched far as eye can reach,
The Acroceraunian heights,—Chimæra's steeps,
That vary but their name in mortal speech,
Each keeping stately watch o'er the azure deeps,
As it hath long kept and for ever keeps;
Hail to her hills! the old haughty hills and high,
The unruined Temples mocking mouldering heaps!—
Raised by men's hand for far futurity,
These perish but those last,—Heaven's works know not to die.

XVII

Now Conrad lands upon the Corfiote shore,
As fair an isle as glads the Ionian seas,
Enriched with Nature's most exuberant store;
What aromatic odours load the breeze,
What brilliant tints, what prospects bright are these?
Sweet island of Corfu! thine air indeed
Is all enchantment, and must soothe and please
Ev'n bosoms like his own, that smart and bleed
With recent mortal wounds, by sternest fates decreed.

113

XVIII

He musing treads through loveliest paths, to gain
The spot where erst Alcinous' gardens were,—
Art's works have flown, but Nature doth remain;
The almond and fig-tree are as ever fair,
The rhododendron and the tamarisk there
Shoot as luxuriantly as in the old days;
There, too, the cypress darkens on the air;
Yet pause to yield yon olive-trees just praise,
Which, venerably vast, proud frames unwonted raise.

XIX

Now through the busy streets he takes his way,
Where men of various countries may be found,
There Albion's sons their northern mien display,
And Italy makes heard her tongue's sweet sound,
And bearded Jew leers cautiously around,
And bold Albanian, with firm gait and high,
Scarce seems to touch, or seems to spurn the ground,
Pride in his step and passion in his eye,
His juktanilla's folds wide tossing gallantly.

XX

The Albanians pleased the Wanderer's wandering eye;
All grace and dignity their vestment shows,
Blazing with gold and broidery's dazzlery,
Yet not too gaudy in its rich repose;
White as a snow-storm their full drapery flows
Down to the knee in thick folds, dense and deep,
Brow-bound with splendid shawls yon proud form grows
Upon the vision like a dream in sleep,
Gathering new glories still, till past it seems to sweep.

114

XXI

Farewell to the fair isle; and now behold
Where Ithaca upriseth from the main,
Where she, the faithful mourner, grieved of old
For him she feared might ne'er return again,
O'er his loved isle and her true heart to reign;
But no Penelope there watcheth now,
Nor weaves her web, nor links fond memory's chain,
With mournful heaving heart, but tranquil brow,
True to one hope, one love, one vigil, and one vow.

XXII

Leucadia, throw thy shadow o'er the sea!—
Dark rock of death, love's latest hope and hold!
And o'er our souls throw that deep shadow free,
Till they reconjure up the scenes of old,
And cast again in her own burning mould
The raging Sappho, daughter of the Sun!
To whom the fires of earth seemed dull and cold,
Who, loving one of earth, must be undone,
Because her soul might here be answered so by none.

XXIII

Breathless with inspiration's rushing might,
How was she wont awhile all silently
To stand, till burst her burning soul to light,
Then flowed the fountains of her deep thoughts free—
Fountains of living fire that seemed to be,
And the heart heard her, and the spirit made
Answer with all its tones of grief and glee,
Upon thought's instrument she featly played,
And forced the mind to shrink, of her sweet power afraid.

115

XXIV

How did she, striking thus her magic lyre,
Teach her rare soul to ages yet unborn!
Though but remain brief fragments of her fire,
How do we burn with her, love, languish, mourn,
Thrill with her passion, shudder with her scorn,
Madden with her despair! a crushing thrall,
That brought her here, with ravening heart-aches torn,
On the cold mercy of the seas to call,
The Sea and Death which heard, while Love was ruthless all.

XXV

She and her lyre together perished then,
And with them, passion, glory, and despair;
The Sun of Heaven shall never rise again
On such a soul of flame as vanished there.
Sleep, fervid heart, forget the chilling air
Of this dark world, for which thou wert not made,
Forget its deadly coldness, thy keen care,
And in thy rolling bed of billows laid,
Rest, ever rest in peace which never more shall fade.

XXVI

Parnassus! dare I whisper thy proud name,
And dare I gaze up thy imperial height,
Which now doth in the golden sunshine flame,
As though itself were of this earth a light!
My soul is hushed before this glorious sight,
I am bowed down before thee, to adore
All the overpowering magic of thy might,
Old mountain! Earth, thy footstool, seems to pour
Her treasures at thy feet, her fairest flowery store.

116

XXVII

Most mighty spot of dazzling glory past,
And beauty present—dare I dream thy praise?
Yet thoughts will lighten on me full and fast
But to expire in brief meteoric blaze;
Each perishes and pales e'en where it plays:
What thoughts were worthy of thee? 'tis in vain!—
For me I can but sigh, but bend, and gaze,
I have no voice, no fire, no spell, no strain,
But smothered feeling grows a passion and a pain.

XXVIII

Mountain of loftiest mysteries! from thy height
Could we but gaze down on the past and all
Thou hast beheld—the vanished power and might,
The strength of inspiration's brightest thrall,
All that was doomed before the World to fall,
Yet bade a World end with it!—thy rapt guest,
Should doom the present to oblivion's pall,
And haunt for evermore thy cloudy crest,
The eremite of thy peaks, there setting up his rest.

XXIX

Parnassus, thou dost soar into our souls!
They are thine atmosphere and vaulty sky,
And the orbed and the ethered thought around thee rolls,
And with the triumphs of its ecstasy
Makes glad the mountain of all melody;
There swell'st thou, shadowed forth in thy vast pride,
Towering into our spirits, whose strong eye
Gazeth upon thee, worshipping—yet hide
Thine awful head i' the clouds—thou dread and deified!

117

XXX

Parnassus! thou dost rise into our souls!
Their dreams and powers thy clouds and stars shall be;
The laureate spirits and the inspired scrolls,
That gave to thee their immortality
Are not! but fervent zeal, emotions free,
And admiration's homage, pure and high,
For evermore must live surrounding thee!
Our thoughts shall be the eagles of thy sky,
Our memories of thy might thy loftiest canopy.

XXXI

Now Conrad's breast, the lonely and the stern,
Feels an unwonted thrill shake all its chords;
Why doth his roused pulse beat, his spirit burn,
His thoughts glance, flashing far like unsheathed swords?
Athena, mourning lady of the earth's lords,
'Tis that he hails thee with adoring sighs,
Which dare not wake, not whisper into words,
'Tis that he lifts to thee his kindling eyes,
That drink new life and light from that hour's proud surprise.

XXXII

Trembling he treads thy consecrated ways,
Trembling and breathless with his transport deep:
Another world hath broken on his gaze;
Hath his past life been one cold, shadowy sleep?
He climbs the Acropolis' soul-honoured steep,
And looks bewildered on the scene around,
While still his spirit doth all silence keep,
For language hath not been, words ne'er were found
To speak such feelings as with very life seem bound.

118

XXXIII

Glorious Athena, e'en thy ruins seem
More perfect than whate'er elsewhere appears,
Most flourishing, most finished! every beam
Of thy bright sun falls tenderly as tears,
Upon the reliques of thy trophied years,
And each sweet breath of the Ægean breeze awakes
But to embalm thy treasures—proudly rears
The Parthenon its front that Time but makes
More hallowed, for his own, and thousand Triumphs' sakes!

XXXIV

Farewell to Greece, the lovely and the great,
For great she must be, though so mournful shown,
In her much changed and desolate estate,
Her nations but a name, a tomb her throne;
But thus she hath an empire all her own!
An empire of which Death we feel, we know,
Is not the lord—here Time and he fall prone,
He hath but left the heaven-born thoughts below,
Immortal still!—and made their grand Creators so!

XXXV

But ere the last farewell is said to thee,
Resplendent land! one sad,—but hallowed spot,
Made holy to the undying memory
Of man for ever, shall not be forgot;
To be immortal is indeed its lot,
But with how drear, how heavy, a renown;
On Nature's face it glooms a cloudy blot,
The glad sun's rays it seemeth back to frown,
And from it breaks a voice not centuries' din shall drown.

119

XXXVI

From that sad spot was coldly, deeply thrown
A shadow stern o'er the universal soul;
The world all darkened with one death made moan,
Her voices grew the echo of a knoll,
A dimness o'er her sight distressful stole,
Her noon-day sun seemed one eclipse, the flame
Of many stars did faint expiring roll,
As though they heard that angel's call and claim—
Which in withdrawing One thrilled all creation's frame.

XXXVII

Greece! thou hast many a consecrated place,—
Tell of Thermopylæ and Marathon!
Tell out of these where heroes did embrace
With death or victory; many another one
Hast thou, where the earth itself as a sun,
Beaming with buried glory, startingly;
But there is none, and the wide world hath none
That meet compeer should in deep interest be,
Mourned Missolonghi! now, and evermore with thee.

XXXVIII

No mighty monument ariseth there,
The poet's death-place to commemorate:
Why should we gild and trophy our despair?—
Enough! the ground need groan beneath no weight
Of sculptured marble, blazoning his dark fate,
But to the height of his high thoughts we raise
Our thoughts admiring, early still and late,
And pile such pyramid to his great praise,
A monument of mind, made stable to all days!

120

XXXIX

Now Conrad anchored in fair Smyrna's bay,
The scene around a radiant aspect wore;
This in his life shall be a golden day,
When first his footstep presses the Asian shore.
Oh! soil of sainted fame—of sacred lore,
What memories waken as we tread on thee;
What feelings quicken to the heart's touched core!
We walk in spirit with the past, and see,
With the Soul's eye alone, from wonted trammels free.

XL

Asia! the gardens of thy hallowed clime
Most holy with thy Maker's footsteps grew;
And thus thou art blessed to all future time,
And deepest influence hast thou, full and true;
Thine age surpasseth all things that are new!
Oh! eldest world—how haunted art thou still
With memories, thrilling heart and spirit through,
Still speaks each rolling river, sings each hill,
Of Him who here first made man know His word and will.

XLI

Land of the birth of our Humanity!
Land of the death of Him whose crowning wreath
Was the sharp thorns of human sins, which he
Bore for us in this darkened world beneath,
Receiving, to resign our mortal breath
In pangs untold, which his last thoughts forgave!
Land of Man's birth,—and his Messiah's death,—
Asia! art thou then of thy God the grave,
Whose throne is thick-starred space, whence he but stooped—to save.

121

XLII

On the Asian soil then Conrad lingered long;
He climbed the mountain that o'erlooketh far
The city and the bay—a glittering throng,
O'er those blue waters shone, of ships of war,
Christian and Ottoman—that friendly are;
Stern castled ruins were above, around
Wide-scattered tombs—nor that strange scene did mar,
The browsing camels—on that thirsty ground
These raised their snake-like necks—hearkening his footsteps' sound.

XLIII

Once more within the bounding bark—away!
Away o'er the azure waters, that seem spread
To be a mirror to the effulgent day,
A path e'en the angels might be proud to tread,
Though but from earthly shore to shore it lead:
Is't not as though the suns and stars displayed,
In all their various lustres overhead,
Molten and mingling their great splendours made
One dazzling deluge broad, where all their mixed lights played.

XLIV

Merged there the greater and the lesser lights,
In startling blaze or tenderer show appear,
As all had darted from their heavenly heights,
A lovelier aspect there to win and wear,
Mellowing to one—yet glistening deep and clear,
As each retained some sweet remembering beam
Of his peculiar glory—far and near;
So shone the sea—while that glad morn did stream
From the eastern doors of heaven, all silent as a dream.

122

XLV

Here 'twas one sheet of radiance, as indeed
The element were turning into flame!
There milder tints with gentler beams agreed,
O'er the pained sense, with softening influence came—
And ne'er more glorious seemed Creation's frame,
Unto that Wanderer's eye, than then it showed;
He almost felt a growing sense of shame,
While all around him with such brilliance glowed,
That he on viler things had e'er deep thoughts bestowed.

XLVI

Earth's miserable clay and loathsome dross,
Its baubles and its nothings—dust of dust—
But, lo! the smiling isle of Tenedos!
Away with every dream of life's disgust,
He now may cast such from him, nay! he must.
Mount Ida's crest is shining in his sight,
His senses their own evidence distrust—
His soul, on fire, with kindlings of delight,
Owns how the past flows back in all its noblest might.

XLVII

Mount Ida and Scamander's valley see
Beyond Sigæum's cape appearing now;
But shall we pass all that is left of thee,
Thy tomb, oh! golden-haired Achilles—thou
Who dragged in dust the Trojan's crested brow,
Dust which full soon was heaped above thine own?
Some little triumphs do the fates allow—
To man—proud sunshine for a moment shown—
Then wrapped within a cloud—for ever round it thrown!

123

XLVIII

Behold, outstretched in still, serene repose,
The Plain of Troy appears—of the two Troys!—
Priam's and the Alexandrian—which arose—
(Alas! how time all works of man destroys,
As these were made but to become his toys,—)
At that great Macedonian's will, to mark
Where once one stood whose name strange tongues still noise,
In praise and wonder—though confused and dark
Its history be in sooth—its light a long-quenched spark.

XLIX

What though of Ilion not one trace remain?
Who but beholds her with Faith's building eye,
While busy images here haunt his brain!
Helen the Passion bloometh brightly nigh,
And sweet Andromache the Purity!
Great Hector's plumes dance snowy on the air,
White as Olympus' hundred heads on high;
And Paris, decked with panther's spoils, shines there,
And She with white-tossed arms who prophesied despair!

L

Old Priam! venerable sire of sons
Brave as the god of war, but brave in vain!
There passeth, mourning for the perished ones,
Bowed with a monarch's wrong and father's pain;
Thou haunted eloquent and funeral plain,
Where stern, determined hosts fought long and hard,
Peopled in thy depopulation!—reign
Thy princely chieftains still—thy wreathed and starred,
Thy glorious heroes old—and their more glorious bard!

124

LI

Nor the Alexandrian, nor the Homeric Troy,
May leave to future times a scite or stone,
Yet one at least not centuries shall destroy,
An empire and for ever—proudly lone,
Though Priam's sovereign sway failed, all undone,
Blind Homer's shall survive for evermore!—
Troy knows no second fall—now all thine own,
Oh! heavenly bard of Scio's rugged shore,
Laureate of Gods and Chiefs!—whose mighty race is o'er!

LII

How didst thou raise thy sightless orbs on high,
And wage the whole war on thy clarion lyre!
Homer!—who bade all nations fervently—
The ætherial shock of the all-electric wire
Own kindling—while thou didst arouse—inspire—
Singing of gods and men in such a voice
As made the coldest learn the rage—the fire—
War's glorious madness—who could have a choice,
When thou didst bid them hear—and wonder—and rejoice?

LIII

Of deeds sublime composed is thy proud theme,
Thine Audience of long Ages! whcih adore—
The inspired dreamer, and partake the dream,
And o'er the page the impassioned spirit pour,
And bend the influence of thy spell before,
Where—where is the Argive chief—the Dardan boys,
Existent in thy strain for evermore?—
Still lives—still glories Homer's, Helen's Troy,
For beauty and the bard shall the empire fallen enjoy.

125

LIV

Now the Ocean-pilgrim greets the Dardanelles—
These scenes are such as stir, with magic might,
The moving waters of the heart's deep wells—
Old Hellespont! thou bringst before our sight,
Fair Hero,—as thy foam of beauty bright—
And Sestos and Abydos—are beheld,
Wreathed with soft dreams, that shed the blue faint light
That distance gives, around, till soothed and quelled,
Feeding upon the past, that soul which late rebelled.

LV

And now Propontis' tides around the bark
Are crisped with softest breeze that ere may blow;
The waves seem strewed with many a diamond-spark,
With dancing scintillations all a-glow;
All the sun's brightest rays seem shot below;
For heaven itself sure wears not such glad sheen,
As those swift currents in their glittering flow,
Bickering with rainbowed-lustres quick and keen—
How the soul glasseth back the glory of the scene!

LVI

Propontis! thine old name doth call around
Full many a vision—but the present now
Claims us again with voice of still small sound,
And we its growing influence must avow.
Raise, Stamboul! raise thy bright and towery brow,
Give us to greet thy beauty-breathing shores;
Expectancy doth with strange charms endow—
But thou, whom painter's, poet's eye adores,
Shalt yet display unwronged—bright Art's and Nature's stores!

126

LVII

The city of the Constantines beams forth,
Glows on the gaze and shines back all the sun;
No lovelier vision may be viewed on earth,
And life itself seems newly thus begun;
Nature and Art are here made brightly one,
Blent ray by ray in loveliness and power;
How fine a web of golden air is spun,
Now round domed mosque and proudly-soaring tower,
As ever here 'twas shed, in sparkling, dazzling shower!

LVIII

Chaos of Beauty!—whither shall we turn
To let Creation grow beneath our eye?
For thy mixed elements divinely learn
To blend into one heavenly harmony,
Where long we gaze their splendours to descry,
As we contrived the charm—the enchantment wrought—
As though the senses sped the spell!—we lie,
Lapped in a dream, that dazzles back all thought
In more than magic toils of joyful wonder caught!

LIX

Fair architectural Eden, pride of art,
Bright world of nature—one triumphal show—
A world of light and loveliness apart,
Thou hast no rival and no mate below;
One vast and mighty palace seems to grow,
Of thrice ten thousand palaces composed,
On the rapt sense, that scarce sustains the glow!
Hath Fancy raved—hath Hope's tongue, flattering, glozed?
Imagination's self ne'er viewed such Scene disclosed!

127

LX

Thy Golden Horn is blazing on the sight,
The empurpled waters glass the unclouded skies;
Thence view the scene—drowned, dazzled in its light—
Mosques, minarets, masts in rich confusion rise—
And almost seem to fleet before our eyes—
So high they shoot in the upper air, and dart
Against the clouds! while clad in gloomier guise
The cypress doth from countless grave-grounds start,
Sad monument of death—the minaret of the heart!

LXI

Thou Circe of the Cities!—how we stand,
Draining the enchanted cup of thy delight,
Enslaved by sweet emotions—thy command
Confessing—and thy great and witching might—
How beautiful art thou by day and night—
By night the stars that smite thy gilded domes,
Make thee as 'twere an earth-set Sun so bright!—
By day these flame-topped spires, midst cypress glooms,
Shine till one Firmament of Stars thy pomp becomes!

LXII

Istambol!—Istambol!—thou reign'st a queen,
Upon thy seven-hilled throne for evermore;
To gaze on thy sweet image dost thou lean,
Declining gently to the glittering shore,
To shine reflected clearly, o'er and o'er;
Nay! on thy mountains ride! raise up on high
Thy head refulgent, loftier than before—
Let thy rare features, traced out on the sky,
Be more and more revealed to emparadise man's eye.

128

LXIII

For that shall be thy mirror—that shall make
His soul as 'twere thy shadow—full of thee;
No image painted on the unruffled lake,
Mountain or nodding grove shall ever be
Traced with such magical fidelity,
As thou within his heart—upon his mind,
Where but himself and the angels' eyes can see;
Thus shalt thou leave thine earthlier shores behind—
Throned on the eternal thought—in the endless Soul enshrined.

LXIV

For worthy art thou of such highest place,
And worthy art thou of such homage deep—
Charmer!—that liftest up the loveliest face
Earth shows to heaven, from thy fair sevenfold steep;
Nor alpine amphitheatral-circling sweep
Of snow-crown'd mountains, nor deep forests vast,
Nor clustered islands, in bright graceful heap,
More beauty could display than thou—thus cast
In most consummate mould—best, brightest, first and last!

LXV

Morning grows rosy as she meets thy smile,
And noon sees all his keen and blinding rays
Beaming on many a strange, fantastic pile,
In golden lightnings flashed ten thousand ways
Back, till they set earth, air, and waves a-blaze,
And pierce the clouds above them through and through;
And then we look on thee with charmed amaze,
But thou for ever seem'st to start up new,
Varying thy very shape as changing mien and hue!

129

LXVI

And fair smiles Scutari on the Asian side
Of those clear waters, whose soft-gleaming path
These sever—yet in beauty's charms allied
The sister-cities seem, thus spread beneath
One glowing sky, one atmosphere's mild breath
Partaking—Europe and Old Asia blend
Their features, brightened by one royal wreath—
Here in these laughing streams—and finely lend
Each unto each fresh charms—in glory without end.

LXVII

The very fancy seemeth to recoil
Before these worlds of wonder opening out;
The senses faint beneath their splendid toil,
The o'er-wrought reality becomes a doubt.
What are those dazzling domes that seem to flout
The very sun above, with swelling pride,
So lustrous clouds are scattered thick about
The face of heaven, with all their colourings dyed,
Till seems the setting orb to blaze from every side!

LXVIII

The cypresses stand dark against the sky,
Slight, shadowy pyramids, with wedges keen,
Upshooting fine and delicate on high,
And lend their funeral beauty to the scene;
In different shapes, too, shows their sable green;
These pointed all and towering—those were more
Vast in their dark proportions, while between
These arrows seemed sun-tipped with gold, and wore
A glancing look of flight—and flashing from the Earth's floor.

130

LXIX

Gaze round, gaze far, gaze steadfastly and long,
Until the bright confusion shall unwind
In full perfection—mosques in stately throng,
White kiosks decked with many a gilded blind—
Groves, gardens, grave-grounds, fountains—tiers behind,
Vast tiers of palaces, domes, minarets, towers,
Ten thousand trees i' the city's heart enshrined,
Forests of death, dark-spread funereal bowers,
How the consummate whole, both the eye and mind o'er-powers.

LXX

The skies in their full triumph here behold!
The waters and their powers in all their pride;
Those swelling hills, that seem like billows rolled
Down towards the Euxine!—show on every side
Fantastic shapes—while where flows thy fair tide,
Sweet Bosphorus! 'twixt two seas, smile fifty vales
Of beauty, thrice ten rivers murmuring glide,
And countless hamlets glisten—never fails
The loveliness' rare charm, whose might the sense assails.

LXXI

Climb, pilgrim, climb to the Seraskier's tower,
And gaze your fill upon the scene, and know,
And own the imperial city hath a dower
Pre-eminent—unparalleled below:
Match me that wondrous and most various show—
Tomb, column, cupola, bridge, terrace, square;
And then those Caïques that like spirits go,
Silent and swift as meteors, through the air,
And statelier barques that shine and bravely queen it there.

131

LXXII

What groves gleam forth of cloud-kissed pinnacles—
What avenues of glistening porticoes—
How proud a crown of domes to heaven there swells,
What lofty trees frown dark in shadowy rows,
On what bright distances the eyes repose,
A forest of fair minarets around—
Afar a scene that ever gains and grows
Upon the heart—high mountains snowy crowned,—
Islands of beauty—waves of purple tints—profound.

LXXIII

How can we dream, some few brief years ago,
That Horror here unmasked his ghastliest face—
That here arose the wildest shrieks of woe—
For these have left no vestige and no trace!—
'Twas here the Janizzaries' tyrannous race,
Sank, and for ever—sank, but not without
A struggle fierce as is the death-embrace
Of foe with foe—the clang—the tramp—the shout
Are o'er, and Treason's flag no more yon skies shall flout.

LXXIV

Treacherous and tyrannous, how these sought to raise
Themselves on falling empire's shattered wreck,
And turn the tribulation of those days
To haughty 'vantage—on their monarch's neck,
Placing their foot of fate—sage counsels check
Their guilty hopes for ever, and they fall,
The imperial conqueror's strengthened state to deck,
Whom long they strove to crush with fettering thrall:
No more their burdening yoke, shall withering grind and gall.

132

LXXV

Fierce pealed the deafening yell of wild despair,
'Mid crashing ruins heard and clanging arms,
While rocking flames swept roaring hoarsely there,
And desperate throngs to 'scape from mortal harms
On mortal harms rushed, maddening; for the alarms
Of fire and war were round them: did they burst
Forth those dread flames, the armed hosts in hostile swarms
Back drove them, to that wildest death and worst;
Howled they in that red hell, like tortured souls accursed.

LXXVI

Dying and dead in hideous mingling lie,
Like famished wolves these flames licked up their prey;
The dreadful glare goes reddening up the sky;
Even like earth-lightnings do those wild fires play,
Scathing and blighting on their ruinous way;
The roar of flames, the shock of arms, the tread
Of trampling multitudes—the savage bray
Of warlike trumps, the crush of walls that spread
All the earth with ruins, shake pale Bosphorus in its bed.

LXXVII

And never more shall earth behold her sons!
Lost to all shape of their humanity;
No grave shall e'er enclose those hapless ones,
Who there expired in ravening agony.
Ashes on ashes shall above them lie,
Their blackened bones shall ne'er be bleached again:
A thousand are as one; the observant eye
Might gaze upon the smoking mass in vain,
No form of man is there, their memories even are slain.

133

LXXVIII

And those who 'scaped that conflagration then,
Pale fugitives, dispersed in the echoing streets,
Fell by the stained hands of their fellow-men:
Death at each turn the panting straggler greets,
A foe in all the hunted victim meets.
Up to the hilts their swords were clogged with blood,
Who fought in those dire days, when no retreats
Except the grave's remained for that bold brood
Of restless spirits fierce, that raged with haughtiest mood.

LXXIX

E'en as a nation rose they in their might;
Now, but a name, and that a scoff is made,
They fell, they perished in their fellows' sight:
But dared the oppressing tyrants hope for aid,
They found but such as gives the sharpened blade
Unto the hotly pressed and the pursued;
Through seas of their spilt blood their brethren wade,
To make their dwelling-place a solitude,
To sweep from earth their trace.—So closed that fiery feud.

LXXX

And they are swept away for evermore,
Their memories banished, and their names exiled:
How many a headless trunk, all bathed in gore,
Was flung into yon waves, where corses piled
On corses those fair limpid streams defiled,
Poisoning them with corruption! and for long
The tide told ghastly secrets, though still smiled
Its surface bright, as though it knew no wrong;
But in that watery bed were heaped a weltering throng.

134

LXXXI

Away with such foul memories! they depart
Wiled, witched away by all the beauty round,
While trembles back to trustful peace the heart,
Too long on such dark contemplation bound,
Won to a tenderer dream and a profound;
A dream of oriental languishment,
Without a name or form, a breath, or sound;
A dream of many dreams together blent,
Hovering about the soul as round a rose its scent.

LXXXII

Our thoughts speak here a language all of flowers,
As do the dark-eyed daughters of the East,
And linger round the deep, enchanted bowers
Of this fair clime, where feeling is a feast;
Ever its power and influence are increased;
The willing captives hug their golden chain!
The restless heart's vain fevers e'en have ceased,
The mind hath risen superior to its pain,
As disembodied 'twere, freed, fetterless again!

LXXXIII

We glow with all the gladness of the clime,
With every breath do we a bliss inhale;
Swifter and swifter speed the wings of Time;
Through every pulse and pore doth pleasure steal,
And sweet peace penetrate, that shall not fail:
Our very thoughts with quickened ardour live;
Each doth its own rich weight of sweetness trail,
Like honey-laden bees into the hive
Of the full heart, here, here, where hope and fancy thrive.

135

LXXXIV

Fair is the mosque of Sulymane, and vast
Its noble court, where breathes religion's air,
Where lofty plane-trees their long shadows cast,
And make the solemn scene more deeply fair;
Proud are the mighty gates, all carven there,
With arch of arabesque in rich detail;
And these fine walls adorned with skill and care,
Rose up from ruins, when the rites did fail
In Chalcedonia's church—are sanctuaries thus frail?

LXXXV

But turn to Saint Sophia's wonderous fane,
Glory of two religions, boast and pride
Of the two worlds that in alternate reign
Here worshipped—the Ottoman and Christian, wide
Dissevered, yet in one thing still allied,
In the adoration of the eternal throne;
For Allah and Jehovah here abide,
The same for evermore, sole, single, one,
The Ancient of Days, the Unseen, the Approachless, and the Alone.

LXXXVI

With the first step upon that vasty floor
We breathe, as 'twere, another atmosphere;
As our feet landed there on the awful shore,
Towards which all barks that plough life's ocean steer,
All things around us in their place appear
Sacredly strange, or as a stranger feels
Our Soul, as though 'twere entering a new sphere,
Hearkening the judgment-thunders' opening peals
In that dread hour when Thou hastenest thy kingdom's wheels.

136

LXXXVII

Space there seems spread before us like a dream,
The shadow of itself, which less we see
Than feel:—how do thy glories on us beam
In the unity of all their majesty,
Proud Dome! no objects break this harmony,
Like heaven when there is nought but heaven seen there,
(Not broken by your beauty even, oh! Ye!
Pale shivering stars, so spiritually fair!)
This proudest temple shows, and consecrates the air.

LXXXVIII

And this is space where myriad suns must melt,
The larger and the lesser lights to one!
And that in deep dread presence must be felt
The Light of light! pure Righteousness' crowned Sun!
Whose blaze unveiled may be beheld by none;
And here may burn and shine those worlds of soul,
That silently their race mysterious run,
That when the heavens are withered like a scroll,
Shall cease not to exult, and sweep, and beam, and roll.

LXXXIX

It is the soul, with strange powers all her own,
That smites such proud fane with the enchanter's stroke;
For the architect but layeth the first stone,
Piling the marble and the stubborn oak,
She the true builder is, the mightiest—look!
How doth she raise, how spread, how magnify!
Each triumph heighten—every failing cloke,
Lifting this earthly structure to the sky,
So that no mountain soars more gloriously on high.

137

XC

She the true builder is—behold at length
The work completed—pause and contemplate,
While she, with all the armed Sabaoth of her strength,
Still soareth on, the mightiest of the great:
And did she bend beneath the exceeding weight
Of this rare structure's glory—nor perceive
It was not human hands that could create
What she is made most powerful to atchieve?
She a creation called from trace that these did leave.

XCI

These reared the marble, these the granite shaped,
But she hath planted fresh foundations there!
From every limit, every bound escaped,
Free, unconfined as in the pathless air,
(Remaining yet in this rich pile and fair;)
'Tis she hath wrought a startling miracle!
All thought can compass and all dream can dare,
Hath she atchieved, unutterably well,
And bade to boundless size the exalted temple swell.

XCII

So is it wondrous, so is it sublime,
By virtue of her great sway magnified;
So doth it leave behind the world of time,
Through her with systems more august allied,
Thrones, Powers, Dominions, Mysteries here abide,
And all have place with many a presence here,
Upon the wings of victory's strength to ride,
And to rejoice in their most blest career,
For she conveneth these who at her call appear.

138

XCIII

And what are they? lo! Majesties and Powers,
Thrones and Dominions, Mysteries proudly shown,
And triumphs dazzlingly revealed—all dowers
Of Sovereignty and Victory are her own,
These are herself, for she, and she alone,
Makes as a bright orb of the blessed shine
This mortal edifice, which thus hath grown
Worthy to be the Almighty Father's shrine,
A shadow of his throne,—step to far realms divine!

XCIV

There hovereth she as 'twere upon the brink
Of the two worlds, and seems o'er both to reign!
To her this pile seems one outshining link
Which so she seizeth, glorying, not in vain;
And thence even twines at once the eternal chain!
'Tis as one tone that breaks on her fine sense;
And thence she taketh up the unbounded strain,
Till the elements adore her eloquence,
And what she wills is doom, and where she dwells, the immense.

XCV

Thus thou art as the form she wills to take,
Thou noblest work and wonder! thou shalt be
Even as the mighty shape in which to break
Away from earth, she seeks exultingly
To meet the stars and mingle with the sky!
And so she doth exalt thy matchless frame,
Beheld, admired, by the deep-dreaming eye,
Until it hath no likeness and no name,
Nor shall her visions wane, her energies grow tame.

139

XCVI

Triumphant edifice! 'tis thou that first
Biddeth the thought to loftier freedom start;
Then doth that thought around thee break and burst
To glory endless, and to thee impart
Its own fine splendour, which doth through thee dart,
Brighter than sunbreak—flooding thee with light,
Making another Nature of thine Art!
As thou wert from the first supreme and bright,
Not wrought through years of toil by man's prevailing might.

XCVII

Whirled like a fiery chariot of dread state,
Up to the heaven of heavens shalt thou appear;
There is no world around thee, dome nor date
Come near thee, thou dost raise aright and rear
Thine head still high and higher—thou new sphere
Of the enraptured spirit, which doth pour
Its life through thee, and thus this proud bark steer
At once from earth to yon etherial shore,
While seem surrounding worlds but as the waves that bore!

XCVIII

Man speaks in many languages to man;
He breathes upon the rock, and bids it bear
Life's aspect; and as though its currents ran
Warm through those stony veins, how fresh, how fair,
The eloquent marble, all but moving there!
His soul burns o'er the canvas, and it takes
Ten thousand forms of beauty! high in air
He rears the carven column, or he makes
The road-trenched mountain yield—whose front the storm-cloud rakes!

140

XCIX

But ne'er doth he to all posterity
With such enlightening eloquence appeal,
As when he buildeth up, beneath the sky,
Great temples, where thronged worshippers shall kneel,
And from the world that yet surrounds them steal!
Then he hath done all man may ever do,
Of outward show and semblance; and they feel
Who own his skill, how just it is and true,
Man's works to heaven inscribed are by heaven sanctioned too.

C

Thence, thence flows the inspiration, thence the fire;
The approving angels haste to lend their aid,
Till Nature's self nought nobler boasts and higher;
For sure when this creation's frame was made,
'Midst all the greatness, all the might displayed,
Nought of the Eternal Spirit's light was shrined,
Save still where the image shone in soul pourtrayed;
Else had Earth been too glorious,—with that twined;
But when man's works rise up forth streameth his whole mind.

CI

And thus the glory not to be sustained,
Poured fresh from the highest source, all too divine,
Becomes apparent, lessened yet unstained,
Man, in ten thousand stately works of thine,
Most in the temple and the sacred shrine,
Raised to that Maker's honour, who hath willed,
Glorified through his creature's acts to shine,
Whose souls are with his awful image filled,
And with his knowledge fraught, and with His presence thrilled.

141

CII

Therefore the labours of the human hand,
So oft with admiration's height inspire;
Breathless with wonder we before them stand,
While the heart trembles like a stricken lyre;
Therefore they fill the spirit's large desire,
And satisfy the imagination's dream;
Since like glimpsed traceries of the Almighty Sire,
The Shadows of his Image 'tis they beam;
And thus were doubtless meant to crown the all-wondrous scheme

CIII

He there hath manifest his triumph made,
Nor through this medium shall it crush, o'erpower,
Not in the terrors of full truth displayed,
Before which all that lives should shuddering cower,
Not in the outpouring of its awful hour,
The array and the attributes of sacred state;
No! it hath thus a fainter, tenderer dower,
So seems the Almighty Ruler to abate,
While he displays his light, that man shall be made great.

CIV

Man! made the mightiest instrument to show
And magnify the greatness of his Lord!
How wisely well is't deeply ordered so,
Creation, lightening from the omnific word,
With boundless splendours fraught and treasures stored,
Was purposed surely Thy dread state to spread,
Thy heavenly Majesty, the Unveiled, the Adored,
To glorify—but in itself, too dread,
'Twould all destroy, all blast, fresh from its fountain-head.

142

CV

But circling thus to consummation's height,
How the sublime intention is fulfilled!
In man's soul shadowed is the Light of light;
In man's works may it shine, for he is skilled
To blend his spirit as its Author willed,
With all his hand contriveth! be it so!
While thus creation as a field is tilled,
Till the great harvest springs, 'tis thence doth flow
The mighty Good whose depth not pondering angels know.

CVI

Is the aim so answered, the high purport crowned,
Aye, wreaked on fulness of accomplishment,
Glory to glory added, without bound,
And majesty with majesty so blent,
Brightening the bright throne of the Omnipotent?
Who, who shall doubt that all that is, must be,
In the end and in the crowning of the event,
Thine empire to enlarge stupendously,
Dread Lord, and so to raise and laud thyself through thee?

CVII

Thou art but magnified by being known!
'Tis Thy great Spirit that doth man's controul,
And his creations must be still thine own,
Oh! thou from whose dread will arose the whole:
That Spirit shines most clearly through his soul,
His soul through all that he constructeth here;
Therefore yon stars that in strong triumph roll
Not more impressive more sublime appear
Than some old, ruined pile through which the past streams clear.

143

CVIII

Even in the hoar ruin that proud tale is told,
The stamp and seal is on its front decayed;
But when such matchless temples we behold
As here are to the astonished sight displayed,
How strong is the impulse given, the impression made!
Astounded with keen admiration even
Awhile we pause—half shrinking, half afraid;
Then seem earth's clay-clouds from the Soul's sun driven:
'Tis man draws down on earth the glory of the heaven.

CIX

Then seems the glorious Image all our Soul!
We rise above our dim humanity;
That light divine becomes our being's whole,
And we confess our brethren are as we—
Nature's chief representatives of thee!
And feel of what deep mysteries we are the heirs,
How great e'en now, how greater far to be
If now man's mind a stamp so heavenly bears,
What shall it be when nought of fettering dust it wears?

CX

If now thy likeness in this mortal life
'Tis thus allowed to shine, and more to spread
Abroad, with its own presence fraught and rife
With beauty and all pomp, though made to tread
The old paths that lead the living to the dead,
When it is mansioned in the eternal skies,
How shall it then redoubled lustre shed,
And throw off there its mortal, dark disguise,
And show indeed the truth to all creation's eyes.

144

CXI

Shall not thy glory, Lord, be then increased?
Shall not thy creatures, awed with rapture, know,
Even from the first and loftiest to the least,
The talent lent them here on Earth below
Is that unbounded Glory, which to sow
And reap thou will'st in spirits framed by thee,
So, more than dazzling shall thy greatness show!
And more than Infinite shalt Thou thus be,
Scattering thy Godhead's rays through all the eternity.

CXII

Such thoughts possessed the Visionary's brain
In swift succession hurrying through his mind,
While lingering in Sophia's pompous fane,
He left awhile the busy world behind.
But were not heavier feelings sadly twined
With soaring phantasies and dreams o'erwrought?
The Christian stranger here in sooth may find
Food for full many a deep lamenting thought:
Hark to the Koran's laws, where once the Word was taught.

CXIII

The Crescent on the ruins of the Cross,
Was planted in these walls long years ago;
And to the Christian world thou art a loss,
Thou noblest structure! who but feeleth so,
That gazeth pondering on thy mighty show,
Thy matchless area, and thy swelling dome.
Behold a slab of alabaster's snow
From Solomon's famed temple, a strange home
For this, near sacred shawls that wrapt the Arabian's tomb.

145

CXIV

The inscriptions glittering on these walls attest
How great that Prophet, or the Koran's page
Affords some honoured sentence, or behest,
To teach his followers to be just and sage;
Not fired, as erst, by bigotry's fierce rage,
And rank hot jealousies—behold, with head
Pressed to the ground, the mussulmen engage
In prayer's deep duties, though a Christian's tread
Sound on that floor hard by, while the orisons are said.

CXV

What stately pillars the rich roof uphold!
Itself Mosaic's fairest, bravely done,
Costly they are, and venerably old.
These from Aurelian's Temple of the Sun—
Those from Diana of the Ephesians won,
When Her great temple sank, a mountain bowed!—
Making the earth round a ruin!—some that none
May trace to their first stations through time's shroud,
Of Egypt's granite formed, or porphyry bright and proud.

XVI

Now Conrad mounted to those galleries high,
O'erlooking this vast scene, proud corridors,
Themselves imposing to the 'wildered eye,
With marble pillars planted on their floors,
And marked the infernal and celestial doors,
The gates of heaven and hell, which there remain,
Darkened by age; the Wanderer's eye explores
Full many a scar of time and deep-dyed stain,
Musing on their strange names, which thus they still retain.

146

CXVII

Grieving, he turned from this excelling dome
To mingle in the common world once more;
For there his spirit found awhile a home,
A country and a sphere, a golden shore,
Safe from life's tossing breakers; the hour was o'er,
And now he threads the busy throngs again,
Composed to calmer silence than before;
The galling and the grating of the chain,
Suspended still should seem, that hour was not in vain.

CXVIII

'Tis to the Atmeidan that he bends his way;
There Achmet's mosque, with its six minarets, soars
Without; within, so fair that the orb of day
Can light nought lovelier—its vast folding doors
Of bronze conceal rich treasures, mighty stores
Of sacred wealth; the unclouded sun's keen rays
Make bright illumination there; fierce pours
His full light's stream on gold—white marble's blaze,
And many a glittering tint, o'er which its clear flood plays.

CXIX

He marks in the ample area of the square,
The obelisk the imperial ruler brought
From ancient Thebes, and then placed proudly there,
Through future times to draw the observer's thought
To Theodosius' memory! 'tis all wrought
With hieroglyphics, but the inscriptions traced
Upon the pedestal his eyes have caught,
In Greek and Latin flowing,—nor effaced
By time, nor barbarous hands, by such acts oft disgraced.

147

CXX

Hard by a ruder monument remains,
Defiled, defaced, a wreck of stormy years,
The inscriptions blotted out—unnumbered stains
Covering the rough, dark surface; near this rears
Its height, the serpent-column, which appears
Injured and fallen from its former pride,
Since it was won by Persia's warring spears,
And in her camp remained, till Greece defied
Defeated Xerxes' hosts, with victory at her side.

CXXI

Then that, and Freedom were once more her own!—
Still do its serpent-folds close wreathing twine,
As when in great Apollo's fane they shone;
And if they hear not oracles divine,
In these changed days, when such in sooth decline,
Why, they even they shall now, methinks, at least
Whisper them, as 'twere from some hidden shrine,
Wakening strange echoes in the troubled breast,
That doth receive the Past as a most honoured guest.

CXXII

And there triumphal proud processions passed,
Joyful for Christian conquests, and 'twas there
The solemn march of the crusaders cast
A light of plume and crest and bannered spear;
And here it was Justinian did appear,
The Holy Gospels in his hand upraised,
Striving to make the infuriate people hear,
Who vowed that glorious temple should be razed,
Built of the ruins vast of Solomon's, the praised!

148

CXXIII

And here the captured Gelimer in chains
At conquering Belisarius' chariot led,
Full mournfully pronounced the inspired strains,
And “All is vanity,” lamenting said;
There bending with humiliated head,
While at Theodora's feet the conqueror knelt,
He who at last was fain to beg his bread,
Praying an obolon, in tones to melt
The stoniest heart, which then, at least, compassion felt.

CXXIV

Here, too, in times in sooth not far remote,
The Janizzaries hurled the swift jereed;
A warlike pastime, rousing as the note
Of the loud war-trump to the listening steed:
Great was their skill and strength and flashing speed;
Scarce with their movements might the eye keep pace;
From all restraints their supple forms seem'd freed;
Lightness with strength was joined, and art with grace—
Who of their favourite sport or them now finds a trace?

CXXV

Then to the Cistern he his footsteps bends,
That of the Thousand and One Columns named!—
And down the darkened flights of steps descends,
In sooth vast crowds of noble pillars, framed
Of lasting granite, well such name have claimed:
Now silk is twisted here, a busy scene,
And tattered children in that spot so famed
Yell out for aspers, while on what hath been
He dreameth silently, with cold, abstracted mien.

149

CXXVI

Days pass—hours fleet—and the hour and day are here
Which call on Conrad his farewell to take
Of the Sultana City, fair and dear:
From Pera's heights he sees the morning break,
In gold and glory that bright scene to wake
To all its splendours, nor could he controul
A thousand sighs for past enjoyments' sake,
While standing to behold its charms unroll
He caught and clasped at once the whole 'scene to his soul.

CXXVII

Thence shall it never fleet, there never fade,
Till memory's self be lulled to her long sleep,
Till that which once was him shall lie decayed
In the grave's cold unfathomable deep.
'Tis something still such memories bright to keep,
Part of our being grown, till all is o'er;
Thus doth the traveller a sweet harvest reap,
And garnereth up a glad and grateful store;
He can call up a world at will his eyes before.

CXXVIII

Through Pera's rough-paved lanes his line he takes—
Franks, Greeks, Armenians in his course he meets;
Nought pausing on his path, his way he makes,
Once more to visit Stamboul's peopled streets:
His sight there many a well-known object greets;—
Loaden with grapes the fruiterer strideth past,
The bearded trader, propped on cushioned seats,
His sleepy eyes upon him deigns to cast,
Whose turbaned brows bear folds voluminously vast.

150

CXXIX

The sherbert-seller, with well furnished tray,
Stands near to tempt the thirsty passer-by;
His brimming cups, set forth in fair array,
May well attract and please the wistful eye;
The gem-like fruits Aladdin did espy
In the charmed genii gardens might not wear
Colours more bright and rosy in their dye,
Than those that now these flowing vases bear,
The Kochafdjii, too, pours his juice-mixed beverage there.

CXXX

The venders of caïmac hard by are found,
With tray and tripod too; these mixed among
Hale peasants see, from the fair country round,
With heaped-up baskets huge, on bent pole swung,
Upon their broad and brawny shoulders slung,
With leathern buskins girt on their swarth legs,
Thong-laced, and o'er their backs rough sheep-skins flung.
And here with outstretched hand a woman begs,
Veiled to the eyes, though old and draining misery's dregs.

CXXXI

Now with a beauteous child walks slowly past
Some close-enveloped Abyssinian slave,
With snowy yashmack's folds, too, bound up fast,
Are screened her dim and dusky features, save
The glittering eyes, that flashing freedom have.
How lovely is the child that grasps her hand!
Yet a true infant Moslem, calm and grave,
So swathed in his rich suit he scarce can stand
Or move, thick robes he trails, with huge drawers and shawled band.

151

CXXXII

With calpacked front a shorn Armenian strides
In haste, despite his flowing garb, along;
On the other side far more demurely glides
The caftaned Jew, distinguished in the throng
By his tribe's dress, and features marked and strong:
He bears the badge of his unhappy race,
And bends him to indignity and wrong;
Still midst the traffickers takes he his place,
With keen and piercing eye, and smooth obsequious face.

CXXXIII

Proffering officiously prompt help to all,
Who need the interpreter's or bargainer's aid,
Still hovereth he assiduous round the stall,
While canvassed is the price—the purchase made:
In broken terms his offers are conveyed,
Still on the watch for all occasions he,
To gain a few poor paras, drives his trade,
And grasps with eager hands his paltry fee,
While to the buyer's two the seller oft adds three.

CXXXIV

Next comes an armed chavass, to clear the path
For some proud Pacha on his Arab steed,
Threatening the scattered crowd with instant wrath
If these the great man's haughty course impede:
Prancing the courser comes, whom pages lead
Along the uneven pavement, rude and rough.
How doth he seem to fret for fiercer speed,
And all disdainfully the air to snuff,—
The slave's restraining arm scarce seemeth check enough.

152

CXXXV

Then came a throng of Turkish dames, close-veiled,
Muffled in floating mantles long and wide,
In mystery most impenetrable mailed,
Which keenest search and scrutiny defied,
Slowly these shuffled on from side to side,
Urging their way through many an obstacle:
Oh! those deep, jealous veils that curtaining hide,—
What tales of cloistered beauty could they tell!
What smiles behind them flash, what charms beneath them dwell!

CXXXVI

Shaking the streets with their loud clattering wheels
Two gilded arabahs appeared in sight!
Through the rich blinds the prisoned beauty steals
Full many a languid glance from left to right;
The scarlet canopy gleams dazzling bright,
With fringes thick with gold, gay bordered round,
One mass of gilding sparkling in the light;
How these proud cars shine forth, for show renowned,
Like Peri's radiant cage, borne glittering o'er the ground.

CXXXVII

But what strange figure claims the attention now,
With ashy-coloured skin and hair of black,
Dark eyes and dusky lips, and deep-tanned brow,
That moves along with laboured pace and slack?
Surely he must have trod a weary track,
That pilgrim-wanderer, since he such appears,
In sooth too worldly goods must sorely lack—
It is a Fakeer, who his far course steers,
From distant Hindoostan, home of his earlier years.

153

CXXXVIII

Soon comes a high-capped dervish slowly by,
With countenance serene and solemn gait,
A step composed, a tranquil brow and eye,
Benevolent of aspect and sedate.
A little farther, and in all the state
Of flowing many-coloured robes is seen
A group of Turks in parley or debate,
Magnificent of presence, port, and mien,
Recalling to the mind what the Osmanlies have been.

CXXXIX

Another cautioning cry now strikes the ear,
Warning once more the throngs to clear the way,
A crowd of porters some huge burthen bear
Of merchandize new landed from the quay;
Distorted out of human semblance, they,
Tottering beneath that burthen's crushing load,
Scarce on the slippery stones their steps can stay;
Close after these some staid wood-merchants goad
Their string of laden beasts along the uneven road.

CXL

It is the water-carrier that presents
To parched pedestrians near his sparkling store,
Emptying his lightened vessels' clear contents;
While those must lack it still that need it sore,
Those labouring porters that had past before,
Sobbing and struggling underneath the weight
Of the overwhelming burthen that they bore.
Now gaze where round yon caravanserai's gate
A knot of travellers stands engaged in gossipping prate.

154

CXLI

Arabs and swarth Egyptians, these appear
Sons of the sandy Deserts and the old Nile;
A wild Roumeliote chief hangs loitering near,
Child of the mountains, in right warlike style
Accoutred, haughty shows his curved lips' smile.
A Persian stranger, too, is lingering there;
These, by the Khan's huge hospitable pile,
Remain to breathe the freshness of the air,
Ere they assembling crowd to taste the traveller's fare.

CXLII

On Conrad passes through the jostling crowd;
At every step some interest fresh is found:
Stop, what discordant drum peals far and loud,
A jarring, startling, unharmonious sound?—
What is that car, that litter, closely bound,
With blinds and curtains, what may this contain?
Who are these men that go their noisy round,
Levying a tax, bent boldly thus on gain?—
Pilgrims to Mecca's shrine, they ask not alms in vain.

CXLIII

Now pauses Conrad where broad shadows spread
From stately plane-trees chase the sultry glow
Forming a verdant awning overhead,
Before a cafeneh's fair portico,
Where sit assembled a bold, armed row
Of children of the Caucasus, whose mien
Their noble natures doth distinctly show,
Determined, and with generous hopes serene,
Trusting the Future still, despite of what hath been.

155

CXLIV

To these he turns, with these he mingles now,
And feels these friends of Freedom each his friend;
He reads on each ingenuous manly brow
A lofty history—and his heart doth blend
With theirs that heave their hateful chains to rend.
They knew the stranger one from that fair land
Whose aid they hope may yet to them extend—
Exchanged glad signs, and stretched the cordial hand,
With frank, kind, courteous show, in mode and meaning bland.

CXLV

A rough adornment on their breasts is fixed,
Thick cartridges arranged in seemly show;
Their aspects seem of pride and candour mixed,
At times o'ershadowed by a cloud of woe,
Which must from out some home-remembrance grow;
But commonly 'tis calm, resolved, resigned,
As those who well their fates and fortunes know,
To struggle to the last with changeless mind,
Outnumbered, harassed, wronged, their children's chains to unwind.

CXLVI

For not in their devoted days they feel
Shall be their land delivered!—they must die!—
But what to them is famine, fire, and steel,
If they can leave their offspring liberty!
That loftiest gift and good beneath the sky!
Be the earth a fathom deep in ashes, so
That their freed Sons their unset tasks may ply,
Gathering the harvests black with blood, whose flow
Burst from their fathers' veins in liberty below.

156

CXLVII

These few had surely come intent to seek
Supplies of arms and ammunition here;
For generous friends they have that long to wreak
On the foul treble tyrants, stern, severe,
(At home, abroad, through bondage and through fear,
O'er their own subjects, and their forced allies,
And grasped dependencies,) revenge, how dear!—
Who view with favouring and admiring eyes
These brave determined bands that strive for one proud prize!

CXLVIII

The strength of all your Hills is in your Hearts,
Ye warrior-mountaineers!—through each bold vein
A torrent, free as that which bounding parts
From the steep's towering crests to sweep the plain,
Gushes sublime! though pure, how dread its stain!
The strength of all your Hills is in your Souls,
Firm fixed as e'en that old Caucasian chain,
These should not shake, though crashed the affrighted Poles
Conquerors that are to be! on! arm, for Heaven controuls.

CXLIX

And shall not Heaven adopt your cause, her own?
And shall not Heaven espouse your side, the right?
And shall not the everlasting Arms be thrown
Around ye, in their all-prevailing might,
To save and succour from the threatened blight?—
Stronger than mountain-fastnesses, or more,
Than high resolve of men, when men unite
In such a holy quarrel, these shall o'er
The land shed Freedom's joy, and staunch the Patriot's gore.

157

CL

Conrad with grief ariseth to depart—
Swift speeds the hour, he must not long delay;
But evermore engraven on his heart,
This touching passage of his parting day
Shall rest, unbowed to dull Oblivion's sway—
Kind marks and tokens are exchanged again;
Soul speaks to Soul what words may never say;
Heart bounding unto heart—the electric chain
Of love fraternal links, which shall its power retain.

CLI

Once more along the streets he thoughtful treads,
But pauses for awhile, where drooping trees
Cast down deep shadow, which far-lengthening spreads;—
Mourners, above resplendent tombs are these;
Fenced round with gorgeous-gilded lattices,
Shines the still place where stranger entereth not.
Oh! when calm Death the wearied spirit frees;
How sweet to rest in such a beauteous spot!
'Twould reconcile, methinks, to the universal lot.

CLII

And rainbowed flowers and singing birds are there,—
And chrystal fountains, murmuring, flow and play,
And precious-delicate seems the odorous air,
Trembling with throbs of music through the day!—
There floating perfumes breathe, while the orient ray
Falls, like the softened looks from loving eyes,
Through these thick veils of branches that array
The place with shadowy beauty:—can the skies
Illume a heavenlier haunt than this, where slumber lies?

158

CLIII

Ne'er yet sang living birds so sweet a strain—
If he that told the tale, the sooth hath said—
The mourners place them here, nor think in vain
These tones shall thrill o'er Nature's latest bed;
They deem these soothe the spirits of their dead,
The phantoms of their parted ones—and hold
Delicious converse with the loved, who fled,
(Yet whose affections not e'en then grew cold)—
Thro' these sweet birds they speak, in music to their mould!

CLIV

(Melodious messengers from Life to Death,
Beloved interpreters of the aching heart!—
Still, still Love's wounded spirit languisheth
For such communion, when the adored depart,
And leave their lone survivors' breasts to smart;)
Peopling with voices thus the shadowy place,
They deem these speak; they speak, and almost start,
Hearkening another music, where they trace
Familiar tones, that nought can from their Souls efface.

CLV

Those Souls have spoken, and are answered well,—
'Tis good when sorrow acts a part so mild;
It is a lovely thought, and deeply dwell
Its tender phantasies, so sweet yet wild,
Now on the mind of Passion's fieriest child;
And long he gazeth on that green retreat,
By no rash wandering footstep e'er defiled,
A verdant oasis in the o'erthronged street,
Of Peace and Sleep and Death and haunting Love the seat!

159

CLVI

That evening he embarked, and looked his last
On all the world of wonders, spread around:
And must this glowing Present grow the Past?
And must this Vision soon be no more found?—
Tho' stamped upon his deep heart's core and ground!
He speaketh no adieu; his fancy dwells
On all he leaves, and sorroweth without bound—
All his changed thoughts are turned into farewells,
And many a struggling sigh his yearning sadness tells.

CLVII

His thoughts are turned into farewells; and thus
In heaviness they link their gloomy chain,
In mournful admiration emulous,
A dark procession and a funeral train,
Since admiration now is grown a pain;
For he must part from this surpassing spot,
Never, perchance, to tread the soil again,
Where joy gleams, shed around the darkest lot,
And if we sorrows have, these sorrows seem forgot!

CLVIII

“Fair Valley of the Sweet Waters! farewell!”
Thus ran his thoughts through those lamenting hours:—
“No more must I 'mid these enchantments dwell,
And sun away the day 'mid thy bright bowers—
Young Fairy-land, that seems all made of flowers—
Half-blooming to a paradise beneath
The heart's exulting transport!—even like showers
Of heaven-dropped dews, self-spun in magic wreath—
There clear Barbyses flows along his silvery path.

160

CLIX

“Farewell, pale Cemetery-city, thou
Tomb-cinctured Scutari!—Death's own proud seat!
Enthroned he dwells upon thy towery brow,
A threefold Heaven doth bless his bright retreat,—
Above,—beneath, clear-mirrored at his feet,—
And rivalling that reflection far around!—
How Earth and Water one rich show repeat!—
Elysium universal!—how profound—
Unfathomably deep—that beauty without bound!

CLX

“Chrysopolis of the ancients! fair thou art,
But in thy Paradise the Tree of Death,
Not Life, seems flourishing from out thy heart;
Thine atmosphere is the old, grey charnel's breath;
Yet soft it is and fragrant, and beneath
Thy shadowy tire thou smilest in beauty bright,
Fresh, as thou didst but wear the rose's wreath;
Near thee spreads Chalcedonia's towerless site,
Covered by peasants' homes, thy sister once in might.

CLXI

“Marmora! farewell, with thy green island crown,
Sweet sylvan regions, fair as Nereids' bowers—
Above the waters,—not chained darkly down—
Lifting their heads of beauty, through all hours,
Graced with fair foliage and ten thousand flowers.
Farewell, old aqueducts and spires and domes—
Must I no more gaze on the august Seven Towers,
Yon proud seraglio—and yon palace-homes,
Which seem as vestibules—to the all-encircling tombs?

161

CLXII

“Time-honoured walls, farewell!—no more to nurse
Dreams of the old Past, must I muse near to ye;—
The flaming walls, methinks, of the universe,
In ruins scarce should more majestic be.
Behold how the ivy-wreaths (of thy deep sea,
Time! the dark weeds, thy slime is as their soil!)
This desolation deck funereally,
Fettering, in many a wild, fantastic coil,
Those mighty fragments round—as though decay to foil.

CLXIII

“To hide their plight, their yawning wounds to bind,
And to unite their broken fragments, vast,
Those wreaths of solemn beauty, clinging, wind
Around these veteran trophies of the Past!—
Through these must pierce the hollow crannying blast,
Ere its sharp tooth their mouldering masses try,
Like verdant armour, Ivy! round them cast,
Thou maks't them look yet firmly reared on high,
While the soil round is formed of their fallen masonry!

CLXIV

“Thy thousand-tendrilled folds, caressing, cling
Round these, as to uphold and to sustain;
Thine hundred arms dost thou impassioned fling
About these glorious ruins, with fond strain,
As though to clasp them, press them, and enchain,
Guarding from outward wrong and Insult's gaze
That might assail them, did ye not thus train
O'er them your verdant bower's luxuriant maze;
Brave, faithful Ivy-plant! to thee be worthiest praise.

162

CLXV

“Who—who may trace, thou love-like Ivy-plant!
Those labyrinthine bower's mazed paths that twine
Perplexing thought!—thy wreaths here downwards slant,
Trailed on the ground, as might the o'er-loaded vine,
To hide some scar of ruin, these decline;
While those still climb, with all their leaves, on high,
Like bannered folds, that for some triumph shine,
Streamers proud fluttering, flouting the azure sky,
On lonely summits raised, that yet soar lostily.

CLXVI

“Wouldst thou confuse the eye, not let it mark
All there Decay hath pitilessly wrought,
Shrouding those walls in mantles deep and dark?—
Ivy, how hast thou yet the semblance caught
Of that thou coverest, as thou thus hadst sought
To show as well as screen, while thou dost spread
Thy light and graceful palls—so aptly taught
To take the shape of that which, like the dead,
Beneath them lies, changed, dimmed—with thy life round it shed!”

CLXVII

Then turned his thoughts to light themes like to these,
Which he might seek not, nor desire to chase:—
“From Marmora still to the old Symplegades,
Thence back to Marmora, restless birds of Thrace,
Wandering, yet wandering, run ye your sweet race!
We envy ye—we envy ye—and fain—
As glad a course would we unceasing trace;
But we must track full many a path of pain,
Not take a sunshine-flight, again and oft again.”

163

CLXVIII

Thus cried his thoughts within him—and they fed
On gentlest artifice of fancy so—
And aye, with still small voice they cried and said,
“We envy ye, swift-pinioned birds, that go
With hearts light as your plumes—still to and fro:
We envy ye—since glad is your career;
One part, one place, one path ye ever know;
Yet ever seem a fair, fresh course to steer,
Since to fresh springing hopes all things as new appear!”

CLXIX

How different now the scenes that meet his view,
From those the city's busy streets displayed,
Which late in curious mood he wandered through—
Those crowded tchartscheys, stirring haunts of trade—
Those swarming thoroughfares, amusive made
By strange admixture still of garb and mien;
Those courts and squares, where under spreading shade
Of lofty plane-trees, serious and serene,
Full many a brilliant group of stately Turks was seen.

CLXX

These are exchanged for magic scenes in sooth,
Where Bosphorus rolls, the Beautiful of Streams!—
Pure shines his tide and chrystal clear as truth!
The palace of the Marble Cradle beams
Before us now; through latticed fencings gleams
The golden-glowing orange, lemon-trees,
And the pomegranate there enchant our dreams,
With Eastern luxury—on the scented breeze
Come sounds of fountain-falls, and birds' rich melodies.

164

CLXXI

How fairy-like are these delicious shores
Of smiling Bosphorus, beautiful and bright!
Through what fair scenes his sparkling current pours;
On either side what beauties charm the sight!
See, where the river spreads, as with delight,
O'erflowing, widening to a soft-curved bay,
The spot where Raymond of Toulouse, bold Knight,—
Where Godfrey, hight of Bouillon, on their way
To Palestine, encamped, high-souled Crusaders they!

CLXXII

Elysian City! Eden of All Eyes—
Fain would he climb yon Giant Mountain's side,
And see the whole of thy crowned glory rise;
Once more before him, in its pomp of pride,
Veiled with thine own great glory—like a bride—
Bright city—like those cities in the clouds
We see, at times, with sunset splendours dyed,
Where palaces are heaped in dazzling crowds,
And domes on domes seem piled till twilight all enshrouds.

CLXXIII

Where thousand amphitheatres appear,
And hanging gardens and triumphal gates,
And many an arch doth its proud front uprear,
And the endless show the enraptured sense ne'er sates;
But yet such aëry city poorly mates
With thee, oh! Beautiful! past all compare;
Thou, the desired, the admired of powerful states—
The imperially—luxuriously fair—
The enchantress of two worlds—Queen of Earth, Wave, and Air.

165

CLXXIV

The Giant's Mountain saw the Russ encamped
Upon it swelling and commanding height,
Chafing, the bit of sharp restraint he champed,
Barred from the matchless prize within his sight;
For friendly hosts hath she to guard the right—
And native hearts and hands—one heart—one hand,—
That hath on rebel-subjects dealt in might—
The noblest, first—the loftiest in the land,
Mahmoud, thine own! dread Chief—born the empire to command!

CLXXV

Here at the base of this fair mount expand
The rippling waters to an azure lake,
Retired and sheltered on the curved shore stand—
Therapia and Buyukdere, that awake
New admiration,—and the lulled mind make,
All redolent of peace; for there appears
Soft Quietude his chosen place to take,
In those sequestered haunts, where Beauty rears
Her loveliest thrones on earth—and each sweet spot endears.

CLXXVI

Soon rolls the old Euxine round the hurrying bark—
Hail to its billowy waters!—this fair breeze!
How race we, as the dolphin from the shark,
Lightening along the unfathomable seas—
Lo! where the waves on the old Symplegades
Are breaking, till the sun seems shivering there;
So doth he dazzlingly shine down on these.
What!—are these blue, bright waters, sheen and fair—
These—the black tides?—the Storm's inhospitable lair?

166

CLXXVII

But yet one sigh that those loved shores are lost,
Which ever seemed like glimpses snatched of heaven!
Longed he to land on the Anatolian coast,
And reach those Genoese ruins, rent and riven,
That gaze on the Euxine, far beneath them driven,
In its dark purple rolling; but 'twas vain;—
On must he speed—the signal-word is given,
Lengthening he trails the heart's electric chain,
Which many a wakening shock shall yet make thrill again.

CLXXVIII

Roll, Euxine Sea! roll on in all thy pride!
Thought, as a bird speeds o'er thee, now it flies,
Panting and eager to thy southern side,
Where Trebizond and Colchis, under skies
Of sultry fervour dwell; and now it hies
To the far Caucasus; now turns to where
The Danube's many mouths,—of various size,
Flow into these salt tides and deep.—Ah! there,
There lies the homeward road, that road most blest and fair!

CLXXIX

Varna! where the yellow-haired barbaric Ghiaours
Conquered, and flew their ravening eagles high,
Above her desolated mosques and towers,
Where now the sullen-sailing owl may fly;
For many a lonely ruin crumbleth nigh.
'Twas here Hungarian Ladislaus was slain
By Amurath, erst the warlike Osmanlie;
Shall these fair walls know War's fierce shock again—
Her domes the battering balls—her streets the ensanguined stain?

167

CLXXX

Here landed Conrad, tempted to pursue
His journey hence, some leagues, at least, by land;
For fain would he the inland country view,
Mix too with the unsophisticated band
Of many a scattered hamlet—thus he planned,
And straight addressed himself to find a guide;
For lone he stood upon this stranger strand—
One who should know how meetly to provide
Appliances and aids—and his fresh route decide.

CLXXXI

[OMITTED]

CLXXXII

The Souroudjii was mounted on his steed,
The Tartar-guide prepared at hand to part;
Soon Conrad urged his courser to his speed,
That pawing, snorting stood, well-pleased to start;
Swiftly along, o'er mount and mead they dart,
By many a gurgling brook, o'er many a plain;
Bounded the quickening pulses of his heart,
As on they fared, with nothing to restrain,
They gallopped down the stars that night, ere they drew rein.

168

CLXXXIII

It is a joy o'er lengthening leagues to scour,
Brunting the breeze as wild, as swift, as free;
Feeling within the breast a giant's power,
Racing like barks that skim the freshening sea,
Or birds upon its surges, that might be
Its own light spray, so rapidly they go,
Shooting the yawning gulfs still as they flee:
Is't not enough to wile away all woe,
If such hath been our fate and shadowy doom below.

CLXXXIV

We plunge with our full soul into a grief,
But hail the dawning of a new delight
More timidly—we fear lest it be brief;
We sadden, lest some cloud its surface bright
Should darken, and with cautious care, lest blight
Or change should come, we clasp it to our soul,
Not fearlessly, but doubtful, in despite
Of promise fair, and mix it with dark dole
And bitterness, and through the Pæan hear the knoll!

CLXXXV

The fierce-eyed Souroudjii's broad, swarthy brow
Was bound with graceful turban, full and free;
Light as loose wreaths of fresh-fallen flakes of snow,
That milk-white turban's twined folds seemed to be;
Or feathery breadths of foam upon the sea,—
Or fleece of scattered clouds, without one stain
Of colouring, clouds that in full freedom flee,
Curling before the winds, o'er heaven's great plain!—
And shapes fantastic show—a wild and changeful train!

169

CLXXXVI

So rich, so light did those large folds appear,
With skilful hand his brow tossed loosely round;
And for the rest of that wild horseman's gear,
About his waist an ample sash was wound,
A blaze of blinding scarlet,—rolled and bound
In many a glittering breadth;—wide, hanging sleeves
Left half his sinewy arms bare, deep embrowned
With scorching suns; his loosed camese, too, leaves
His broad chest free, which thus the fanning air receives.

CLXXXVII

The enormous shalvars, spreading strangely wide,
Like sheets of loosened canvass, fluttering free,
And flapping to the breeze, in ample pride,
Completed this rough garb, with high crooked knee,
Firm on the sheepskin-furnished selle sate he!—
Pommelled before him and behind, his feet
In Mameluke stirrups rest, that seemed to be
Sharp-pointed as broad soled—designed to meet
The rider's needs as spurs, and not with idle threat.

CLXXXVIII

Well can these lance the courser's flanks, I ween,
That slack or restive, should such hint require.
But to the Tartar turn we, whose bold mien
And quick, keen eye doth Conrad much admire;
But most, as swift they scour o'er bush and briar,
His Spahi-like appointments! for he wears
A warlike garb, in sooth, if roused his ire,
Or barred his path, a sabre keen he bears,
And many a weapon true, for stout defence prepares.

170

CLXXXIX

Behold him, as he leads his party on,
The tasselled tarbouche on his head is placed,
Broidered his vest, where rude adornments shone,
A broad strong belt was clasped around his waist;
That belt gleamed, bristling with good arms, that graced
His saddle-bow, besides sharp yataghan,
Keen brands and pistols, firmly round him braced,
Made him, I guess, a formidable man,
And many a peasant carle his port with awe did scan.

CXC

Tied round his wrist hangs a terrific thong,
Formed of the coarse hide of the buffalo;
Maddening with fear, as still they speed along,
The straggling, or the staggering, or the slow!
Merrily, merrily the travellers go—
Urge the long gallop—hill and torrent face—
Fair shines the sun, the pleasant breezes blow—
But is it ne'er to end, that lengthening race,
Like the Odenwald's strange dream, The Wild Night-huntsman's Chase!

CXCI

On, on, as 'twere for ever, on they speed,
With clattering hoofs and wild discordant cries,
With panting flanks toils every straining steed,
Dashing along the shouting Tartar flies;
Now first, now last, and long and loud he plies
The far-resounding thong—on, on, away!
Broad spreads the plain—awhile no hills arise
To block the path.—On! on! then, while ye may;
Thick fly the pebbles round, as from surged rocks the spray.

171

CXCII

That sounding storm of steps, together timed,
Beats quick as thunder-showers upon the ground,
And well and wildly these, harmonious chimed,
With crackling lash, and many a varying sound
That issued strong, or piercing, or profound,
From the guides' throats, to cheer their troop, or scare;
While these with outstretched, smoking nostrils bound,
And strain along, and well their burthens bear,
Breathe them a space, where spread these green shades fresh and fair.

CXCIII

On! night is near!—more wild, more swift, more free;—
Hear ye the thickening thunders of their speed?
They foam like billows of a storm-lashed sea—
A hurricane of horse!—blade, stone, and weed
Flash from their hoofs—each hollow-trampling steed,
Now plunging, swerving from the threatening blow,
Strains him to swift and desperate flight, indeed!
“Ha!—Ho!—Inshallah!”—bellowing as they go,
The breathless Tartar shouts, and well his voice they know!

CXCIV

Scattering their foam of speed upon the wind,
Now gallantly a steepy hill they faced;
A cloud of dust curled o'er their track behind;
Hot through their nostrils rolled the smoke of haste.
They hang upon that hill—'tis climbed, as braced
By previous toil—though long and rough and hard,
More rashly yet, more rapidly they raced—
Now the soft turf by wounding hoofs is scarred;
Pleasant i' faith the ride o'er that smooth silken sward.

172

CXCV

But now they beat the stonier track once more,
With flowing manes and flying tails they scour
Along the echoing path.—Not yet is't o'er
That long, long journey,—soon with feebler power
Their coursers go; and shades begin to lower,
And rugged roads, and steep hills intervene;
Slowly they labour through the weary hour—
Dull grey supplants Heaven's azure and Earth's green,
Evening's soft gathering haze shrouds up the distant scene.

CXCVI

Evening's soft gathering haze is darkening now,
Pale Twilight builds her throne in the empty sky,
Void of both sun and stars, a space—Heaven's brow
Is veiled, and wheresoe'er may rest the eye
A mystery of strange shadows seems to lie;
The instinctive brutes still well their pathway mark,
Now pacing leisurely.—Is Schumla nigh?
They prick and point their late droop'd ears. Hush! hark!
Hoarse speaks of neighbouring homes that dog's obstreperous bark.

CXCVII

Deepens upon their sense the uproarious sound;
Yet, ere the town is reached, it seemeth long,
For steep and painful is the uneven ground;
And when the town is reached, that toil-spent throng,
Staggering through slippery streets, half-wedged among
Rough blocks of stones—o'er rugged pavements rude,
While the lash echoes loud, as beaten gong,
Amid the narrow lanes,—scarce seem endued
With strength to gain their goal—through paths thus piled and strewed.

173

CXCVIII

Dismounted Conrad now from his good steed,
That well through this long day his burthen bore,
And prays the Souroudjii to aid his need,
Stroking his vein-swol'n neck,—then gains the door;
There entering, deeply stoops—low bends he; for
That humblest dwelling's roof scarce reached his head!
Frugal his traveller's fare—on matless floor
Then couched he lies—his cloak beneath him spread,
And for some few brief hours sweet sleep is round him shed.

CXCIX

Free through that chamber did the night breeze play,
Th'apertures, windowless, of amplest size,
Surrounding it, with nought that breeze to stay,
Let in the chilling damps of midnight's skies,
After such sultry day with worse surprise,
Oft felt by way-worn wanderer, tired and faint—
He felt them not:—before his dreaming eyes
Such home-scenes rise as memory loves to paint,
Till night died calm away—like some expiring saint.

CC

Fair round him laughed the joy of morning!—birds,
Started at once to song—his own thoughts, too,
Trembled to music—sweetest without words,
(As slumber without dreams, the deep night through!)
Morning and joy! ye come but to renew
Creation, that seems lost in midnight's shades;
But, oh! the heart!—the heart!—that still is true
To Sorrow's midnight shadows—and while fades
Hope's light no sun shines clear—vain, vain all outward aids.

174

CCI

The Tourdjiman and Tartar ready wait,
The Souroudjii with his fresh steeds is here,—
Not him of yesterday, in garb and gait,
Though closely similar, less bold of cheer,—
Less proud of port—of countenance less clear—
More hard of favour this doth seem to be;
Wild as wild Bedouin chief doth he appear!—
The sumpter-horses' bells twang merrily,
A joyous strife of tongues stirs up the heart to glee.

CCII

They mount, they start, they prick o'er hill and plain,
A trampling troop, a prancing cavalcade;
Hot grows the noonday sun, now draw they rein
Beneath some broad-branched trees' embowering shade,
And for brief while, their journey thus delayed,
Gathered there round them soon a peasant groupe,
One an old man whom eighty winters weighed
Nigh to the grave—a child, as young as Hope,
Led him, for blind was he, up that soft verdant slope.

CCIII

Vested in the Oriental fashion, trailed
His garments round him in loose folds and free;
Sorrow his venerable aspect veiled,
Channelled his cheeks with wrinkles' waste; but see,
Grief hath helped age, and ploughed them heavily,
In trebly deepened surrows: tottering slow,
He moved—with trembling hands that withered be,
His comboloio grasped, while, white as snow
The octogenarian's beard streamed thick in lengthening flow.

175

CCIV

He told in accents weak his mournful tale,
In age and blindness, helpless and forlorn,
How he had riches once, but these did fail;
How once on steed of fiery mettle borne,
He proudly rode in youth's gay cloudless morn,
The horses' tramp had roused in him these dreams,
These heavy memories: “Now,” muttered he with scorn,
“With blank eyes visited by no fair gleams,
Blind—beggared—bowed, I weep- shame's tears in blistering streams!

CCV

“Led by this little child I trembling come
To beg the bitter bread, with pain and shame,
Of casual charity—no friend, no home
Is left to me,—nor wealth, nor place, nor name—
One house remains,—all men shall share the same!”
Within the old man's hand then Conrad slips
Some Turkish coins, not deaf to suffering's claim,
A smile faint fluttering parts those white thin lips,
And almost lights those eyes, despite their long eclipse.

CCVI

Choked in his throat the struggling thanks appear,
His faultering hands his surrowed forehead press,
Slides in the path of former tears a tear,
Which speaks his feeling gratitude no less
Than eloquence of thanks, that gift did bless
Giver and taker both, while Conrad feels
We reap but in bestowing happiness,
His heart was never closed 'gainst such appeals;—
To heal his brother's wounds its own deep hurts best heals.

176

CCVII

At length the old man upriseth to depart,
The fountain of his tears awhile is dried,
Prayers, thanks, and blessings gushing from his heart,
He goes, led gently forth by that young guide—
Leaning on that smooth shoulder; by his side
The child looks like a star of love and light!—
With all its beams of beauty just descried,
Leading on the old and dim and solemn Night,
Or like the cherub Faith, that guides blind Wisdom right.

CCVIII

The octogenarian,—that seven-summered child,
His living staff—the scene, the hour, the time,
The assembled groupes around, so strange and wild,
The circumstance, the country, and the clime,
Moved Conrad more than may be shown in rhyme;
He spoke not of it, for to him appears
Reserved from birth, revealment like a crime;
Yet weigh unspoken thoughts like unshed tears
Oft on the shackled heart perchance for months, for years.

CCIX

Among that group, at little distance stood
A dark Bulgarian woman, whose clear cheek,
Though by the East's suns embrowned, with purest blood
Was brightly tinged, as ere the Olympian peak
Showeth when the orb of day his rest doth seek;
While more incarnadined a deeper flush
Stained her curved lip with the pomegranate's streak,
She stood there silent, charmed to wonder's hush,
While ever-mantling rose her smooth cheek's kindling blush.

177

CCX

Bright daughter of the Balkans and of the East,
Of Beauty and the Sun, how sweeps thy hair
From light upbinding fillets half released,
Streaming and scattered o'er thy shoulders there,
Waved softly, just uplifted by the air,
From time to time, that breathes it from thy brows,
Leaving their sculpture-like, smooth surface bare!
Lovely they are, though sunned have been their snows,
For o'er thy lovely head the noon blaze daily glows.

CCXI

How floats thy hair, a mantle round thee thrown,
In its dishevelled hyacinthine flow,
And shadowy dark luxuriance clustering down,
Loosened, yet not all freed, thy waist below;
Even to thy heels 'twould surely wandering go,
If left to stream at its full length, and veil
Thy form, as many-tendrilled vines, that grow
In thick festoonings shroud the tree they scale!—
Though high thy stature shows as palm-tree young and frail!

CCXII

Dark daughter of the Hills! and 'tis thy fate
To work in the open fields, to till the soil,
To set thy hand to labour soon and late,
And to address thyself to heaviest toil,
Thou that the painter's, sculptor's power should'st foil,
Lovely as aught eye e'er hath looked upon;
How dost thou brave the summer day's fierce broil,
And give thy precious beauty to the sun,
Who leaves his soul's stamp there to show he could not shun!

178

CCXIII

The fair Bulgarian's garb yet lacked not grace,
Fastened about the throat with clasps of gold,
A thick flowered vest did well the outline trace
Of her most faultless form, and brightly rolled
About her wrists and waist, in glittering fold,
Are bracelets broad and buckles chased and wrought,
Hereditary hoards of treasures old,
Preserved through poverty, with feelings fraught
With long-enduring pride that sets distress at nought.

CCXIV

Large, languishingly large, and black and clear,
Were her deep-curtained, soft, dejected eyes,
Such as more passing lovely still appear
When half the fire within them fades and dies,
Dark, languishingly dark as midnight's skies
Gloom, when storms bode in summer's sultriest hours,
Like the young antelope's in shape and size,
Whose glance of lingering gentleness o'erpowers,
Whence gleams a tearful light in shadowy-mingling showers.

CCXV

Mount, mount, enough of pause, enough of rest,
To horse! to horse! the day now wears apace,
Rough exercise shall gain redoubled zest
From this delay—your broidered buskins lace,
Tartar—and stow away in its own place
That fragrant weed, without which thou stir'st not!—
Mount! mount! these airs the feeblest nerves might brace,
The slowly westering sun glares not too hot,—
The umbrageous sheltering leave of this delicious spot.

179

CCXVI

They mount in haste, no time is there to lose;
The dauntless, dashing Tartar takes the lead,
Tortuous and steep the paths that he doth choose,
But these that troop of horsemen scarce may heed;
They pass with long, long gallop mount and mead,
Fresh are their steeds, well breathed by that long bait,
Nor hint from lash nor sharpened stirrup need,
Horseman and horse bear bravely on, elate,
Till far advanced in night they gain the friendly gate.

CCXVII

Entering, their kind and courteous host provides
For all their wants with prompt assiduous care;
Good store of fresh-drawn milk, with fruit besides,
Piled up in deep, broad baskets, waits them there,
Of nourishing pillaw, too, ample share:
Outstretched on cushioned coarse divan, they throng
Round Conrad, and for mornings toils prepare;
Few hours suffice, for they are stout and strong,
Well seasoned too are they for labours hard and long.

CCXVIII

'Tis a Bulgarian rustic's peaceful home,
This strong substantial dwelling, rough and plain;
To those who with the sultan's firman come,
Ever the subjects' doors unbarred remain;
For this good man, not bent seems he on gain,
But eager still to serve and please his guests;
But when arrive such travellers with their train,
Then with the Pacha of the district rests,
'Tis said, the power to fee those who well mark these 'hests.

180

CCXIX

But when prepared at day's first dawn to start,
Right grateful token did that traveller press
On his kind host, who humbly stood apart,
Nor did to win regard himself address,
But took that proffered gift with thankfulness;
Since though he held of rustic wealth good store,
And prosperous fortunes seemed his home to bless,
A groupe of children clustering round the door
Disclosed he might have need through coming days of more.

CCXX

The tramp of snorting steeds, and many a sound
Of preparation's glad excitement now
Wake up the slumbering echoes loudly round;
And doth thy soul an answering tone avow?
Man of mysterious mien and history, thou
Who seem'st at times to move unfettered, free,
Dashing a cloud of dreams from thy cleared brow,
But all too soon sink'st back more heavily,
As though to pay that price which must exacted be!

CCXXI

[OMITTED]

181

CCXXII

Blow, breezes of the morning, freshly blow,
Bring strength, bring hope, bring gladness on your wings,
Still pause awhile where these clear fountains flow;—
Now blessed be the abundance of these springs!
Some freshening drops the foremost rider flings
O'er his flushed forehead,—moistens his parched throat;
His steed with rein relaxed his stooped head brings
Down to the wave, on which his full eyes gloat;—
Bathe mouth and nostrils well, but if he drinks, take note.

CCXXIII

For hot is he, and reeking from his race,
And faintness and exhaustion should ensue
If much you let him drink!—since soon apace
Must you the scurry of the stage renew;
Mark then that he of this clear diamond dew
Takes but slight draught—soon now the fountain's side
They haste to quit, and pass the green wood through;
Forward they press, and in right earnest ride;
Well bears him Conrad's roan, with amplest stroke and stride.

CCXXIV

Galloping, galloping, they hurrying go,
Launched on the lightning in their new career,
Buoyant the air and wild and warm the glow
Which nerves their frames to strength; how bright and clear,
That odorous air, that golden atmosphere;
Galloping, galloping, they glance along,
Rousing the shrill-voiced echoes far and near;
Wields the wild Tartar well his ponderous thong;
Away, away, they speed, a loud and trampling throng.

182

CCXXV

That zealous Tartar, eager and elate,
Howls like a dervish in mid-ecstacies,
Clattering with hollow tramp at fearful rate,
Rush they down slippery steeps, or straining rise
Bravely up sharp abrupt acclivities:
Oh! but a gay and gallant stir they make;
Startled, raise up their green and fiend-like eyes,
Those buffaloes, that bathing, basking, take
Their ponderous pastime near, in some small stream or lake.

CCXXVI

Those that still plunged in mire-mixed wave are found
Weltering and wallowing through the sultry time,
And those that have emerged, and on the ground
Rolled their huge frames which thus they well begrime,
Sheathed with a sun-baked panoply of slime,
A mask against the noon-day heat, and mail
'Gainst the winged torturers of this fervent clime,
That swarming in thick phalanxes assail,
'Gainst which nor threatening horns nor trampling hoofs avail.

CCXXVII

Now with dull roar that cavalcade they greet,
And their uncouth deformity display,
Half angered, half affrighted, loud they beat
With heavy stamping hoofs, in close array,
The echoing ground, then sudden shrink away,
Plunge back into the wave and lave their hides
With huge unwieldy pranks and blusterous play,
Bathing their broad and palpitating sides,
While fast and far away the unheeding horseman rides!

183

CCXXVIII

Galloping, galloping, they glance along,
That sounding squadron, hurrying fast and far,
Meets at the road's sharp bend, that hastening throng,
A mounted bey, with well-clad tchocahdar;
Of true Arabian breed their coursers are,
The foam of their fierce champ o'er rein and chest
Flies whitening, while the Mameluke bit's strong bar
Chains their fresh fiery spirit, though caressed
With voice and hand, and checked, scarce now their power's repressed.

CCXXIX

Those other horses, rushing headlong past,
Straining with slackened reins, they see and hear,
And fain would rush as freely and as fast,
Checked by strong hands with tyrannous bit severe,
Thrown on their haunches back they writhe they rear,
Fling far their foam, then plunge with furious wrath,
Half maddening with the mingled rage and fear,
Snort loud and high, and swerve from out the path,
Through their stretched nostrils rolls their pride's infuriate breath.

CCXXX

How do they curve the arched neck, while thro' each vein
The boiling torrent of their ardour flows!
With heaving chest, and with erected mane,
The wild race of the desert nobly shows,
Kindling to fire the flashing eye-ball glows;—
Now vault they high in the air, with desperate bound,
Now with their fore-feet strike, while snorting blows
The reddened nostril still, then paw the ground,
Enraged, as they would make a mimic earthquake round.

184

CCXXXI

In foam of fury these behind are left,
In the full fierceness of indignant ire;
Meanwhile, through many a pass all rudely cleft,
Through rugged hills that well might doubt inspire,
With strength and courage—that ne'er seemed to tire,
Bears on this gay and gallant company;
Yet who would dream there was so much of fire
In those poor posters? they should seem to be
Of the Ukraine's shaggy breed—the rough, the wild, the free.

CCXXXII

Such as have well the Cossack Hetmans borne,
Through battle's conflict or the border's chase,
By long privations and fatigues unworn,
The hardy offspring of a vigorous race,
Such well might seem those steeds, whose rapid pace
But ill with their appearance still agrees;
Mark but the one the Tartar in his place
Bestrides—with battered ribs, and blemished knees,
Scarce could you dream he thus would race it with the breeze.

CCXXXIII

Ha! how they scurrying scour along, they sweep
Like to some storm-sped cloud that onward drives,
Or its fast-fleeting shadow o'er the deep,
Or drifting heaps of leaves, when fierce arrives
Rough winter's first-born gale, so strains, so strives,
Stretched to full pitch of speed, each courser good,
What! are they flying for their limbs or lives—
Those reckless riders, fronting field and flood,
Racing in restless vein o'er many a lengthening rood.

185

CCXXXIV

The Tartar roars his Allahs wild and loud,
With clamourous yells still deafening the o'ercharged ear,
Echoed by that dusk guide, the swarthy browed,
That wild as Scythian savage doth appear,
Hark! “Allah hu!” it rings out far and near;
With the outcry rent—alive with the uproar hoarse,
All the air resounds with their strong shouts of cheer!
Hark! “Allah hu!” with fresh redoubled force
Skirr o'er the lessening plain those steeds on their wild course.

CCXXXV

The whirl, the haste, the clang of those behind,
Those shouts, those heart-electrifying cries,
Make Conrad's gallant roan go like the wind;
Nor him alone,—see where the Tartar flies,
Swift as the bolt just launched from threatening skies;
With barbarous yells, yet breathless all and flushed,
Vigorous, with slackened reins, the thong he plies,
Cleaving the air, while dashing past he rushed,
So scudding o'er the waste with tumult fierce they brushed.

CCXXXVI

Hark, hark to the uproar of that wild halloo!
How doth it peal, with stunning noise and din!
Again, again, hark! hark ye—“Allah hu!”
Till swim the hearer's brains, his senses spin;
Away, away, ye but the flight begin;
Fast the struck pebbles pelt, like plash of rain,
As twilight now doth her dusk empire win;
Sparks from those hoofs of speed, too, flash amain,
'Tis sure some spirit rides with his strange phantom train.

186

CCXXXVII

On! on! away! yet further!—yet more fleet,
Thundering, thick-thundering with tempestuous flight,
Tumultuously the groaning ground they beat;
Sure 'tis the train of some earth-scouring spright!—
The birds spring from their nests in rude affright;
Still scud they on as they were ne'er to stay,
As though the speed of Thought—the flash of Light—
Were in their bounding limbs! Away! away!
Well bears him Conrad's roan—the guide's good gallant grey!

CCXXXVIII

Yells the indefatigable Tartar still,
With never-flagging energies and powers;
His part, in sooth, he doth right well fulfil;
His “Allahs” might strike fear thro' thousand Ghiaours.
How comes it Conrad not in terror cowers?
Delirious with Excitement's desperate mood,
That Chavass seems through these hot, stirring hours,
While through his veins the rush of rapid blood,
Fevered with fiery zeal, pours on in boiling flood.

CCXXXIX

Now waves he wide his arms above his head!—
Now on his broad palanka forward bends!—
Now are they urged by him, now driven, now led;
His soul is everywhere!—Methinks he lends
His spirit to his steeds, with theirs it blends—
With his exhaustless ardour theirs inspires,—
Through their tired limbs his lasting vigour sends;
He gives them hope and courage, nerves and fires,
And with endurance arms, that never flags or tires.

187

CCXL

Night gathers round with deeper shadows now;
The horizon-circled plain seems boundless still;
But do those wearied coursers move more slow?
Nay, seem they now to speed with right good will:—
'Tis that they mark, with fine, instinctive skill,
Their goal, their shelter near—now tighter reined,
Down an abrupt and long and rugged hill
They forward press, and scare will be restrained;
Some few strides farther yet—the good town's gates are gained!

CCXLI

The gates are reached, but they are reached in vain,—
Closed for the night; chained, locked, and strongly barred;
The Tartar swore, in most unmoslem strain,—
Loud thundering at the portals, long and hard,
And then resolved to rouse the slumbering guard,
Discharged his pistols in the air—this failed.
Vain was their sharp report; that group, ill-starred,
Went wandering forth; no voice of welcome hailed;
No sheltering roof appeared—they wondered and they wailed.

CCXLII

They sought some lowly hamlet near, some shed,
Where they might pass the watches of the night,
And pillow upon straw the o'er-wearied head:
Slow pace their panting steeds, now jaded quite,
And chilled with bitter Disappointment's blight,
With reeling limbs and reeking flanks they move.
Ah! in the distance gleams a twinkling light;
It cheers the exhausted train; new hopes they prove;
Not through the night shall they, in Famine's faintness rove.

188

CCXLIII

A hut—a hovel—four bare, clay-built walls,
A peasant's shed, they enter—they request
Shelter and food: ne'er yet, in lordly halls,
Was kindlier welcome given to honoured guest.
Their generous hosts can spread no mighty feast;
But what they have, they give—right freely too;
Warm, fresh-frothed milk, from the udder newly pressed;
Coarse cakes of bread, which from the hearth they drew,
Best seasoned with that salt, of welcome frank and true.

CCXLIV

Then they withdrew, and in some neighbouring shed
Sought refuge for the night; for small was theirs,
Nor might contain themselves and guests. Now spread
Your cloaks on the earthen floor—forget your cares,
Ye weary men, since night fast fleeting wears—
Morn's unchecked beam shall shine your sleep away,
Streaming in on ye!—Now for rest prepares
That silent Wanderer; stretched at length he lay,
But Sleep refused her boon—slow dawns young Morning's ray.

CCXLV

Slow dawns the morning's ray: he heeds it not.
Oh! there are times when independent grows
The soul of place, hour, circumstance, its lot,
Its life i' the clay! then nought of this it knows—
It shakes away all dews of dull repose;
And as the storm wakes, rises in its might—
Launched as the bark, on hurrying waves it goes—
Sped as the arrow darts it on its flight,
Rash as the rushing winds, and rapid as the light.

189

CCXLVI

As in that hovel, vile and poor, he lay,
Thoughts in his Soul rose strong with tempest might;
He seized the page, and wrote in rapid way,
Wrapping those thoughts with words—upon their flight;
But whirlwinds should have been those words, aright,
With meet and just outpouring to express—
The imaginings they seemed to freeze—to blight!
Ah! when we deeply think, we feel how less
Than little is their power our naked dreams to dress!

CCXLVII

He held the glass of speech up to his Soul;
Slight mirror that, in sooth, when wide as space
That spirit, in its deep and wondrous whole!—
(Which thus 'tis called on to reflect and trace!)
Opening to her great depths, shall she disgrace
All likeness; for her features awful are,
And worlds on worlds are clasped in her embrace;
Nay, Space, with all her Stars, grows as one Star,
Thro' her dread atmosphere, faint glimmering—faint and far!

CCXLVIII

[OMITTED]

190

CCXLIX

[OMITTED]

CCL

Now in a pleasant mansion, for awhile,
Doth Conrad dwell, enjoying peace and rest;
'Tis simple in its architectural style;—
A terrace-like broad balcony, all dressed
With bowering vines around it trained and tressed,
Looked on the court—'twas heaped luxuriously
With piles of cushions, mats elastic pressed
The still foot there—his host was tchorbadgi
Of that full, swarming town—a Greek and Christian he.

CCLI

Grave as grave Caloyer seem'd,—as patriarch calm,
That chief of all the Christians of the place;
Beside him grew, as grows a youthful palm,
A fair, young daughter, full of charm and grace;
But fragile was her form and pale her face;
And still the old man seemed watching every breath:
He marked of slow disease the incipient trace,
The insidious, stealthy tread of coming death,
And trembled for that flower which decked his household wreath.

191

CCLII

Yet o'er his countenance no gathering cloud,
To fill her young and trusting heart with fear,
In her loved, gentle presence was allowed;
Calm was he, for the sake of her so dear—
Locked hand-in-hand these ever did appear;
He like a stately oak, at whose huge root
A tender lily groweth, white and clear!
Alas! too soon to wither at its foot,
The worm is in the bud of that fair human shoot!

CCLIII

He was a man of manners kind and mild,
But yet his voice aye took a tenderer tone,
A gentler mien his aspect, when his child
Looked in his face, his blessed and blessing One!
Then in his eyes his soul reflected shone,
His every accent, every action showed—
The Parent and Protector—she alone
Seem'd his life's care—the father's deep heart glowed
With such Affection's wealth as seldom is bestowed.

CCLIV

Not tenderest lover might more fondly hang
On his adored one's lips and looks than he—
(While to his heart thrilled Fear's unspoken pang)—
On every smile and word (that seemed to be
Like rich spoils snatched, for love's deep treasury)
Of his young daughter—ornament and pride
Of his grey hairs and wintry years, must she,
Indeed, be snatched so early from his side?
And doth he rear and watch cold Death's young plighted bride?

192

CCLV

His little lily-flower's soft leaves, in sooth,
Are but just opening to the air and sun;
But many a bloom is cankered in its youth,
Not infancy the tyrant's sway can shun,
And that sweet maid, most like some youthful nun,
Cloistered in childhood's years, seems sinking fast.
Alas! and must he lose his little one?
His heart and hope shall surely withering waste
As she wastes, withers there—till all is o'er at last.

CCLVI

His thoughts are prayers for her unceasing still;
He calls on Heaven; but 'tis the heart that cries,
And not the voice—this still imploreth till
His soul doth day and night unwearied rise,
An everlasting incense to the skies—
For those who pray as he prays, with the heart,
Pause not and cease not, hands, knees, voice, and eyes
May tire—thou the indefatigable art,
True heart of love, that know'st beneath the scourge to smart.

CCLVII

Poor Father! words may paint not what he feels!
Light is but where she looketh back his love,
And sunshine where she smiles,—the gloom that steals,
At times, o'er her soft brow his Soul doth move
With anguish of anxiety—his dove,
His fawn, his lily-flower, his blessed child,
His seraph-sweet Zuleikha! must he rove
This world without her—this dark, thorny wild?
Heaven! Heaven! in mercy, spare his Hope, his Undefiled!

193

CCLVIII

His world is where she walks, where he doth watch
Her every movement, poring o'er her still,
Intent her every look, thought, breath to catch,
Prevent each want, and every wish fulfil.
If she but chance to sigh his heart grows chill;
He almost starts and trembles as she stirs,
Lest she should meet with some mischance of ill;
He holds his breath to listen unto hers,
While evermore his soul the unuttered prayer prefers.

CCLIX

Yet seemed he calm, collected, and composed,
Striving her varying spirits still to cheer;
Though, if you closelier looked, his brow disclosed,
Perchance, the troubled trace of sleepless fear.
Alas! to think 'tis dust we hold so dear!
Ashes that claim our adoration thus—
Death's certain heritage! from far or near,
Ever as his, still his! he looks on us—
Vain are our anxious hopes and watchings tremulous!

CCLX

Most the old man, like some nursing mother, seems,
That o'er her cherished charge in fondness bends,
Till of her own a part its life she deems,
Till with its little soul her's melting blends,
And every thought in one concentering ends;
So doth he seem to watch that gentlest thing,
His lovely daughter, so his soul he sends,
To hover round her on adoring wing;
So Love's caressing dreams doth he around her fling.

194

CCLXI

Touching it was to see this holy love,
A beautiful but melancholy sight;
And much it did that Wanderer's bosom move,
Which knew the void, the dearth, the blank, the blight—
All which that Father's shall, when his delight
Is rapt from his too doating eyes away,
Perchance, ere many months have sped their flight;
For hectic light o'er that smooth cheek doth play,
On which those eyes still feed, and hints of worst dismay.

CCLXII

What is more mournful than to see a flower
Thus dedicate its beauty's pride to death!
Nipped in the glory of its opening hour,
When the air was growing fragrant with its breath,
Bowing and bending that slow blight beneath,
While leaf by leaf is forming but to fall,
The bud condemned e'en in its cradling sheath;
Ere it hath felt the storm, the frost's rough thrall,
While the o'erblown flower still lives, oh! saddest sight of all!

CCLXIII

The tchorbadji and his so gentle child
Now waited while the plenteous board was spread;
Themselves with gracious courtesy, frank and mild,
Their slaves and followers in their duties led,
And saw the simple feast was rightly sped;
Ripe, luscious grapes crowned well the light repast,
And dainty curds and cakes of sweetest bread,
And all the countless preparations classed
Under pillaw's good name—all these from first to last.

195

CCLXIV

And never proudest, princeliest banquet-hall,
With clustering columns, lamps and mirrors dight,
And blazoned ceiling fair, and tapestried wall,
Could charm more than that terrace, large and light,
Trellised and mantled round, to screen from sight
The burning sun, with gadding vines, that fell
In tendrilled, thick luxuriance, green and bright:—
How with the oriental decorations well
Suits this broad gallery, there in shadow th'inmates dwell.

CCLXV

Reclined on broidered piles of cushions, there
Did Conrad muse full many an hour away,
Still tended by the inseparable pair,
Who seldom left his side the livelong day.
It pleased that child, young victim of decay,
To watch the Stranger's manners, looks, and words;
And where she was, her doating sire must stay,
Chained by Love's thousand thousand silvery cords,
Since his affection not one absent hour affords.

CCLXVI

Most tenderly-affectioned each to each
In truth they are; for she too, on her part,
Seems fondly hanging ever on his speech,
And watching every look; and when doth dart
Pain's sting, thro' her slight frame, with wringing smart,
She strives to hide her sufferings from his gaze,
And child and parent have one throbbing heart,
Whose pulse in heavenly unison still plays:
And must he roam, bereaved, in his gray hair's last days?

196

CCLXVII

Then shall he be as the orphan of his child!
Since she was made the Mother of his Soul!
From her sprung forth the affections undefiled,
In which a lovelier life he lived; she stole
His past self from him, and his being's whole
With love's revivifying rays informed,
Transformed!—and his changed years did brightening roll
Beneath her springtide's rising suns, that warmed
His then declining days, till with delights they swarmed.

CCLXVIII

'Twas noon—Zuleikha and her father sate
With Conrad in that trellised gallery lone,
With signs conversing, smiling and sedate;
And here and there a word, whose import known
To him, through repetition's help, had grown:
With childish eagerness her foreign guest,
Zuleikha watched, her aspect dazzling, shown,
With full-flushed Animation's bright unrest,
But yet a weight at times her soft deep eyes oppressed.

CCLXIX

Her soft, sweet violet eyes, whose lids, blue-veined,
At times seemed burthened with a load of sleep,
And her cheek burned, with vivid scarlet stained,
A feverish, flame-like hue, too bright and deep;
And now and then a faintness seemed to creep
Through her frail frame, by interest keen o'erstrung,
And hurriedly her thin, white fingers keep
Running o'er the amber rosary, loosely hung
Around her father's neck, her long locks backward flung.

197

CCLXX

Now swifter yet, yet swifter seems the flow
Of lightning blood through those meandering veins;
More quick and wild the strong pulsations grow!
Now paleness comes—now livelier crimson stains
The enfeebled strength the excitement surely drains
Of this poor child—must she beneath it bow?
That flush of fever ever grows and gains;—
Throbbing tempestuously, how burns her brow,
Till in her father's arms she faints, exhausted now.

CCLXXI

Rooted to earth with terror there he stood,
One hideous thought made all his heart's blood chill;
Is't the pale Dove of Death doth o'er her brood,
The white, white Dove of Death? she droops so still!—
No thought,—nor speech, nor motion!—sharp and shrill
The hiss of torture through his closed teeth grates
On the ear, and makes the pitying bosom thrill;
His words are phrenzy's wildest—nor abates
His fear—still, still she lies—as at the grave's dark gates.

CCLXXII

How beautiful is Death if there he dwell!
Life near it were a mocked and shamed thing—
Her chestnut hair in ripplings round her fell—
And scattered far a sunny light did fling!—
Its rich dishevelled lustre like the wing,
The golden wing of some bright angel seemed!—
Hovering around till all her soul might spring
Upwards with his in glory—freed, redeemed—
When the cold strife gives o'er! so lustrously it streamed!

198

CCLXXIII

Her forehead, colourless as mountain snow,
Like monumental sculpture seems to be;
Pile up no other marble yet to show
That she hath fallen asleep, and now is free!
Here eyes are closed, but wandering tenderly
O'er the deep lids the violet veins appear,
So like their hue still these we seem to see!—
As though transpierced those drooped lids, smooth and clear,
With their celestial light—so soft, so pure, so dear!

CCLXXIV

But, oh! that Father's agonies of grief!
Where is th'assumed and forced composure now?
His white lip trembles like a fluttering leaf;
And those few deadly moments seemed to plough
A century's added furrows on his brow;
His eyes, strained from their sockets, roll, and glare
With glance delirious, while his form doth bow
As age at once had overta'en him there—
Crushed by that ghastly fear—and that o'erwhelming care!

CCLXXV

Hark! how he raves—o'er that unconscious clay!—
Strange words of woe, in desperate wildness drear!
Like fiery swords those keen words cut their way
Through his wrung heart's core,—horrible to hear—
Freezing the listener up with awe and fear:—
“My child! mine own one! thou canst not be dead!
Come back; for I have not a sigh, a tear;
I cannot mourn for thee—I cannot shed
My heart's blood from mine eyes—it turns to ice instead.

199

CCLXXVI

“'Tis but a moment since I hailed thy birth;
My soul was born with thy first smile, my child!
There is no air, no light—no heaven, no earth;
They too with thee first lived and shone and smiled;
Thou'rt gone to Him who gave thee—the undefiled,
Th'unspotted—aye! thou art surely where He is—
And—Mary save me!—for my words grow wild:
He is where thou art, in Heaven's Worlds of Bliss,
With thee—thee in those worlds—but not, ah! not in this.”

CCLXXVII

In low, thick gasps and mutterings died away
The old man's dark words—even like the cloudy roll
Of far-off thunder on a sultry day;
But, lo! all faintly to the child's lips stole
A struggling sigh, a light, as from her soul,
Broke through the eye-lids, fluttering slightly now.
She lives!—she lives!—that one thought makes the whole
Of the o'erjoyed parent's life—he thinks not how,
Ere many months are passed, must fade indeed that brow.

CCLXXVIII

Soon in an inner chamber she is laid;
'Tis cool and quiet—there, on cushions placed,
While the fond father, near her, knelt and prayed,
(Where the niched walls Madonna's image graced,)
She gathered back her strength, and soon embraced
Her Sire again, with her own smile and look—
That sweetly all his agony effaced;
Yet still his form with deep emotions shook;
For ill could mind or frame that dreadful trial brook.

200

CCLXXIX

That chamber's walls were ornamented like
The illuminated manuscripts of old;
And much on Conrad's fancy these did strike;
For holiest subjects there might you behold,
Such as of yore rich missal did unfold;
And on the strangers' land these things strike more,
And soothe the stern, and wake and warm the cold
Most, where religion on that stranger shore
Is not our own—and but, some few, like us, adore.

CCLXXX

And yet the worship of his host was not
His worship, it is true; but times there are
When points of difference seem indeed forgot,
And little rouse our doubts, or claim our care;
Their faith's removed from those around them far—
They both are Christians—both acknowledge Him
Who rose to be Salvation's blessed Star;
For whom black Death his deadliest cup did brim—
He who loved us as love their God the seraphim.

CCLXXXI

Yet with a love surpassing their's how much!
Think, think, on all that He for us hath done;
By praise and song their love may they avouch;
But He, the immaculate—the Eternal Son—
Descendeth from the dread, Almighty Throne,
And to the dust of Life and Death He bends;
His love gains, grows on its own gifts, and none
With His may match—that never wanes nor ends,
That pardons, spares, endures—and thought and dream transcends.

201

CCLXXXII

[OMITTED]

CCLXXXIII

Once more on Danube's rolling tides!—once more!—
Mightiest of many Waters! yet again!—
Hail to thy flowing waves and various shore—
Glad waves! that ever pass—and yet remain—
Linking in peace their lengthening, liquid chain,
Fleeting and yet continuing—flowing on—
Yet flashing still before our eyes, one strain
Of music and of splendour, so they shone,
When o'er thy tides, of old, he wandered, lost and lone.

CCLXXXIV

Night on the waters!—solemn and serene,
With all her train of shadows dim and deep—
There is a brooding stillness on the scene:
Can the elements, the Air, Earth, and Waters sleep?
They seem a breathless sabbath-time to keep
Even now, as night folds round them like an ark!—
On its proud way doth still unpausing sweep—
The steam-impelled and swift advancing bark
Before her shines, at length, a quick light through the dark.

202

CCLXXXV

Nicopolis' fair town, illumined, cast
Keen, fiery hues o'er Danube's 'nighted tide;
It was a festive night, and loud and fast
Glad sounds accosted the ear from the shore's side.
The unheeding river rolled its volume wide,
Unpausing, down—nor stayed to mark or hear
Those sounds of mirth—but swift, did silent glide,
Keeping the course it kept for many a year,
Yet brightening in that blaze, till luminously clear!

CCLXXXVI

And with it went the Visionary's thought,
That paused not willingly to mix with mirth;
No gay reflection that, in sooth, had caught;
For human joy, unlike the joy of earth,
And sky and sea more saddens the Soul's dearth,
When grief is heavy there, and brooding pain;
His heart went with those waters on—went forth,
Still hurrying, hurrying—lengthening its long chain;
For nought below might charm that heart to rest again!

CCLXXXVII

His Heart went, like the river, on—his Heart,
That mournful victim of unpitying doom,
That never more might bear in joy its part,
Lonely as in lone waste—a single tomb!—
No more—no, never, never more the bloom
Once breathed from thence can aught on earth restore;
Age shall as soon youth's vigorous powers resume,
As soon those days roll back, whose flight is o'er;
No more! no, never, Heart!—no hope—no more—no more!

203

CCLXXXVIII

Then passed before his meditative mind
The stormy scenes of old, that here befell,
Till these lit shores once more with hosts seemed lined,
And echoed loud and long the warrior's yell,
Deafening the ear and thundering with fierce swell,
While gathering smoke's dun clouds grew evermore!
Up to the Heavens rose dark War's sulphurous Hell!
The river's tide felt the earthquakes on its shore—
Thus Conrad's mind for long that wild delusion bore!

CCLXXXIX

Other illuminations' blaze, in sooth,
And other triumphs had of old been here;
When deadly War displayed his hideous truth,
And shot and shell flew far, on dread career,
Stars of his rocking firmaments of fear!
While every ear grew deaf—and eye grew blind—
Did Bajazet the Sultan's followers, rear
Their prophet's standards—streaming to the wind,
And Hungary's Christian King mourned with misgiving mind.

CCXC

The Danube's Voyager presses now the strand,
Where Widdin's Town uplifts its minarets fair,
Since he once more would touch on Turkish land,
Ere for his further progress he prepare,
For many a gentle memory draws him there—
He honoureth much, and warmly doth admire
The old Othman-race—though grave, reserv'd, they bear
Within, a feeling heart—a Soul of fire,
And well may deep esteem, and kind respect inspire.

204

CCXCI

He wanders through the thronged and busy streets,
Not inattentive to what passeth round;
Full many a solemn, bearded Turk he meets
With the huge Turban round his temples wound,
And loose, large garments sweeping to the ground;
Clad in his country's splendid garb of old,
Best suited to their clime and customs found.
Beware how ye curtail that garb's vast fold,
How the honoured turban's wreath, from Moslem's brow's unrolled!

CCXCII

Much yet of national may be entwined
With the ancient gear the land's dead fathers wore;
Less things have influence o'er the public mind;
This yet may be, and oft hath been before,
And rooted prejudice, long pondering o'er
What hath been, with associative thought,
Recoils with wounded feelings stung and sore,
From change that makes distinctive tokens nought—
From sudden change and vain—with haste too wanton wrought.

CCXCIII

Soon to the thronged bazaars he makes repair,
Where full employment seems for ears and eyes—
Strange groupes are gathered, idling, sauntering there,
Of many a different stamp and various guise;
There some appointed stalk, all warlike-wise,
Like Caramanian Zebecks clad, they seem,
With weapons graced, of every shape and size;
Armed to the teeth their daggers' polished gleam,
And sabres' threatening length wake stirring thoughts and dream.

205

CCXCIV

And there in robes of peace walk gravely by
Some of the sacred ministers, revered,
Of Mahomet's religion, while to the eye
Of Conrad these calm solemn priests appeared
Right venerable, with the flowing beard
Of patriarchal seeming. One now passed
With the imaum's garb, on whose broad temples reared
The enormous turban spreads, sweeps round him cast
The feredjeh, long-sleeved, voluminously vast!—

CCXCV

Those loose wide-hanging sleeves full low descend,
Around that towering turban's folds is thrown
A costly Barbary shawl, while either end
Upon the shoulders rests, light flowing down:
Next pass, with merry laughter's lightsome tone,
A troop of swarthy Zinganees, with hair
Of jetty black, led on by wrinkled crone,
Weird, weather-stained and wild, and worn with care;
Next comes a childish group, with wonder all a-stare,

CCXCVI

Their large gazelle-like eyes of deepest hue,
Black, black as death, or midnight's densest cloud,
With sweeping fringes all as sable too,
Turned on the Ghiaour!—with wonder oft avowed
In sudden exclamations shrill and loud,
Or busy whisper!—in their hands they bear,
(While mindless of their meal round him they crowd,)
O' the yellow water-melon huge, good share,
And slice, whose juicy pulp affords them pleasant fare.

206

CCXCVII

Now to the Pacha's palace he proceeds,
Through streets where finds the foot but slippery hold,
Hussein that Pacha's name, for warlike deeds
Well known; 'twas he that headed and controulled
The Jannizzaries' haughty bands of old,
Controul most doubtful,—savage-fierce were they,
And he their downfall (thus was Conrad told,)
Counselled and urged, aware their lawless sway,
At length, would his subvert, whose will 'twas theirs to obey.

CCXCVIII

He had borne arms, too, 'gainst the Muscovite,
Commanding hosts 'gainst their invading hordes,
And honours fair had well acquired in fight,
While on the Ghiaours his followers fleshed their swords,
First drawn in fray that well might thrill all chords
Of patriot bosoms—aye, in truth right well!
He was a man of few but courteous words,
And to his English guest his gestures tell
That he is welcome there, awhile near him to dwell.

CCXCIX

Vast was the chamber where, in state reclined,
The lordly Turk received his Christian guest;
Fair shines the o'er-pictured roof, and various kind
Of rich devices on the walls attest
Full well th'Oriental taste in these expressed;
But the large, lofty, opened windows drew
To them the eye, and pleased and charmed it best,
For there it feasted on a glorious view,
Where rolled broad Danube's stream dyed by noon's skies—dark blue.

207

CCC

The Pacha rested on a high-raised seat,
Full costly was the caftan of his wear,
And, for the day oppressed with sultry heat,
His hand a fan of feathers white did bear,
That spread enormous,—this, with courteous air
Resigned he to his guest,—a slave supplies
Another soon, and by himself placed there,
His visitor remarks with curious eyes
All that around appears decked out in foreign guise.

CCCI

On hospitable thoughts intent, the host
Thrice clapped his hands, and bade the obsequious train
Serve Mocha's berry, from the Arabian coast
In pure perfection brought, without a stain;
These entering, while their hands piled trays contain,
The embroidered coverings o'er their shoulders fling;—
Brief time it takes these jewelled cups to drain,
A fairy's goblet scarce a tinier thing,
Such might Titania pledge to Oberon her king.

CCCII

On the outstretched hand's extended palm receive
The slaves those glittering cups and soucoupes back,
With the other palm down-pressed they firmness give,
Avoiding still to touch, by happy knack,
Their master's hands; retiring then, while lack
Nor ease nor grace their steps—they disappear,
But soon return, in service shown not slack,
Bringing rich sweetmeats, sherbets cool and clear,
Of various tints and tastes,—these proffering draw they near.

208

CCCIII

These dainties well despatched, the slaves once more
With meek salaam profound at once retire,
Marshalled in measured order as before,
The gemmed chibouque's curled smoke now wreathing higher,
Doth pleasing dreams and peaceful thoughts inspire:
Hussein, the narghilé chooseth, which doth spread
Its odorous fumes around, nor more require
The Osmanlies, with these fumes round them shed,
But tranquilly they muse and droop the dreaming head.

CCCIV

At length ariseth Conrad to depart,
Rises the Pacha, too, with lofty grace,
Placing his hand with feeling on his heart,
Descends he from his seat's exalted place,
High honour this from one of Moslem race,
To unbelieving Frank, but so this shows
And in a thousand things we well may trace
How tolerance in the prophet's empire grows,
Where bigotry no more her seed of hatred sows.

CCCV

Now through the arched galleries wide doth he retreat,
And gains the spacious court, where crowds await,—
Slaves, scribes, mutes, pages, serfs, and guards there meet
In idling groupes, mixed, loitering, long and late,
Appendages unto the great man's state:
The Pacha's Christian leech his guest doth lead
To where outside the massive tower-flanked gate,
Proudly caparisoned, a gallant steed
Awaits him,—pure his blood of Araby's best breed.

209

CCCVI

That Christian leech, whose Tuscan tongue proclaims
Far Italy's sweet shores his native home,
While many a courteous speech he aptly frames,
Bids Conrad mount, and with him wills to come,
Though well escorted, too, by page and groom.
Now Conrad mentally bids long farewell
To tapering minaret-spires, and mosque's proud dome;
He thought to speak of this, yet might not tell
How deeply in his soul those parting sorrows dwell.

CCCVII

Not to the crowded Bezesteins he turns,
Nor yet delayeth by the fountain's side,
For ever flowing, fresh as naiad's urns,
With clearest chrystal waters well supplied;
Down to the beach must he his courser guide,
That generous steed, so mettled, yet so mild,
So full of fiery courage, power, and pride,
The desert-born, the strong, the swift and wild,
Yet with light touch controul'd, and docile as a child.

CCCVIII

Through close and lengthening streets their steps are bent,
Whose rugged rocky pavements might defy
Ought but a gallant steed of such descent,
To thread their rough ways with security;
But this his rider bears right gallantly,
Choosing his path with fine sagacious care,
While like a globe of living fire his eye
Dilated rolls, with kindling ardour's glare,
Another street, a turn—and they are already there.

210

CCCIX

Conrad alights, and thanks with gift and sign
The slaves who led him to the river beach;
These touch the breast, lips, forehead, and incline
Their heads with meet obeisance all and each,
He thanks the courteous Pacha's Christian leech
(If Christian still 'mid the unbaptized he be,)
In his own lovely Tuscan's syren speech,
The soul of poesy and melody,
And soon on board the bark Pannonia hight steps he.

CCCX

In honour of Widdin's high Pacha now
The loud salute they fire, as her proud way
The bark doth under those broad windows plough,
Large, light, and lofty, where doth Hussein stay,
And courtesy for courtesy repay,
With bending head and waving hand, while round
His followers throng;—meanwhile, with furious neigh,
Start after start, fierce plunge, and foaming bound
That proud steed on the shore affrighted hears the sound.

CCCXI

Booming with echoing long-resounding peal,
That glad salute doth rouse and blithely cheer;
White flash the waves round the revolving wheel,
White rolls the smoke on noon's bright air and clear,
From the guns' mouths, on high its columns rear
Their curling wreaths, to mingle thus with those
Which darkening like thick plumes that crest the bier,
Rise from the bosom of the bark that goes
Rejoicing on her course, while round her sunshine glows.

211

CCCXII

Now Widdin's gleaming mosques and minarets sink
Below the horizon, as they speed along.
What mighty herds graze near the river's brink,
Horses and buffaloes—a thousand strong;
Full many a thundering troop, a trampling throng,
They scour, ungalled, unscarred by spur or goad,
Free from the tether, fearless of the thong,
Unconscious of the crushing yoke, the load,
They their own pastime choose, and their own way and road.

CCCXIII

Scared by the rushing noise, the stir, the smoke,
The buffaloes their green, cold, fiendish eyes
Raise up with savage stare, with threatening look,
While the wild steeds all startling with surprise
In plunging strength, with tossing mane, that flies
Far on the wind, and nostrils stretched and red,
Swift as the sudden lightnings of the skies,
Snorting with wonder, foaming fierce with dread,
With pawing gallop sweep, that far plain boundless spread.

CCCXIV

Nor rocks nor rapids yet impede their way,
But numerous sandbanks, countless islands see,
That even throughout the bright clear-shining day,
Perplex the navigation wearily,
Much more then in the night! when spreading free,
Dense, dangerous fogs, brood dark and deep around,
Lifting o'er all things their cold canopy,
Then must the steersman, ruled by judgment sound,
Delay till morning's step doth o'er the horizon bound.

212

CCCXV

Gallantly goes the bark her hurrying course,
And far behind her in succession leaves
The herds of buffaloes, the troops of horse,
The smiling fields, though piled not thick with sheaves
Yet offering pasture rich to sheep and beeves,
And savage steeds; and now awhile is viewed
Low Kalafat, who on her roofs receives
The sunshine, a Wallachian hamlet rude,
Then Florentin's crowned rock with shattered fragments strewed.

CCCXVI

And now a Roman camp and road they pass,
What monuments rise o'er that Empire's grave!
Swift shoots the bark o'er Danube's sheets of glass,
Lo! Trajan's Bridge appears above the wave;
Its mighty fragments still Time's inroads brave;
Vainly have sixteen hundred winters tried,
With chilling frosts that pierce and storms that rave,
With all their floods, gales, ice-shocks,—Time and Tide,
Have vainly tried to crush these piers of strength and pride.

CCCXVII

On either bank of massive masonry
Abutments huge, that mock decay's dull powers,
('Twixt which these piers extend,) attract the eye,
Flanked with foundations of long mouldered towers,
(That erst have worn the ivy's forest bowers,
But now are fallen and mingled with earth's clay.)
Though Time's slow cankering tooth with stealth devours
As water wears the stone, perchance his sway
An hundred winters more these wrecks shall frown away.

213

CCCXVIII

Despite its lonely, changed, half-foundering state,
How nobly still the stately ruin stands,
Eternity yet asking for its date,
Was't built by mortal,—nay!—by Roman hands!—
Surely those conquerors of a thousand lands,
Those wielders of the world's great energies,
That gave consenting nature their commands,
And seemed for Jove himself to monarchize,
Were not of common clay, or knew from such to rise.

CCCXIX

'Twas when the Romans did of old defeat
Decebalus the Dacians' king, they raised
This wondrous bridge, in length a mighty street,
On whose imperial wreck now Conrad gazed:
'Twas by such works they better far emblazed
Their deathless glory, than by conquests still;
For such be they most honoured and most praised,
Well didst thou their sublime design fulfil,
Apollodorus! since thine the architectural skill!

CCCXX

From far Damascus 'twas thou didst translate
Thine art, thyself, to that all-genial clime,—
The Roman! so to win a nobler fate,
And make that glorious art yet more sublime,
Thy name, too, to bequeath to farthest time;
And thou didst well, for proudly floated down,
As on a sea of glory, mid full prime,
With theirs to everlasting bright renown,
Shall be such names as were with theirs by fortune thrown.

214

CCCXXI

By Adrian was the bridge destroyed, defaced,
Sunk in the waters, levelled with the shore,
Leaving those fragments Time hath not displaced,
And from that hour it seemed the spell was o'er;
No more the Roman warrior, never more
Crossed Danube's stream victorious! here 'twas first
The mightiest tide of empire ebbed, and bore
With it man's loftiest ark of greatness, nursed
In splendour of success, till that bright bubble burst.

CCCXXII

There Sorozeny stands, its Roman name
Severnium—'tis a rampart proud and strong,
A colony of those dread conquerors came
And settled there, and there remained for long,
Spreading their arts and teaching their fine tongue,—
Where are they now? no echo even replies,—
Where are they? that transplanted, valorous throng,
More traces of the masters still where rise
The huts of Tschernitz near, before the Stranger's eyes.

CCCXXIII

Remains of their encampments still appear,
Beside those humble dwellings, poor and low,
And every trace of them shines bright and clear,
Who but would not their giant footsteps know,
(How did they glorying in great triumph go,
Till the earth bowed her face beneath their pride,
And changed her countenance submissive so!)
'Tis Skela Gladova that scattered wide
A prosperous peopled place, stands on the Servian side.

215

CCCXXIV

And now the voyagers must prepare to brave
The fearful passage of the Iron Gate,
(A wild and threatening wilderness of wave,
Which thus 'tis the Orientals designate
In their rich style, which ceaseless tropes inflate,
And pompous metaphors,) for these do seem
(Such fair imaginings they aye create)
Still to speak pearls,—think flowers,—while ever teem
Their words with eloquence, on every passing theme.

CCCXXV

Their bark is now exchanged for shallower barge,
Which harnessed oxen drag with labour sore,
Struggling along the river's rugged marge,
Mustering a lengthened team, perchance a score,
And at the worst and wildest spots yet more,
These, sturdy peasants drag, drive, goad, or lead,
Raising their voices to one chorussed roar;
For the proud River, in its headlong speed,
Lifts up a deafening shout of clamourous strength indeed.

CCCXXVI

Most of the passengers that barge forsake,
And take the path those labouring oxen tread;
A motley group I wot they are, and make
A curious spectacle, like captives led,
Since an armed servian soldier at their head
Struts, with tophaike well loaded, lest they dare
Set bounds infringe, and plague's dire terror spread;
Such is the assiduous and paternal care
Of princely Milosch, who doth Servia's circlet wear,

216

CCCXXVII

But Conrad in the tossing barge remains,
Well pleased upon that scene so strange and wild,
He gazeth long, nor once the excitement wanes,
Rocks bristling over rocks far round him piled;
Seem by the restless Waters little filed
To smoothness, (still e'en sharpened more and more,
Till to their threatening points edged swords were mild:)
How their fierce tumult shakes the affrighted shore,
Where hills reverberate aye that long resounding roar!

CCCXXVIII

Hark, how the waters howl their savage scorn,
Writhing themselves to horrid forms of fear!
How the reflected heavens therein are torn
As 'twere to dazzling fragments, and appear
With all their shivered sunshine strong and clear,
Shattered to gorgeous ruins, till they seem
Racked to a hell in that confusion drear!
And sending forth a dread portentous gleam,
Till swoons the drowning soul in that most hideous dream.

CCCXXIX

'Tis as though when creation leapt to life
This one spot was forgotten, and remained
A battling chaos still of tortured strife,
Where all pale Discord's furies rage unchained,
And reigns the fierce Distraction that erst reigned,
Making all space one madness, ere that word
Was breathed by Him whose gracious mercy deigned
To attune to harmony each jarring chord,
Ere Peace and Order praised the judgments of their Lord.

217

CCCXXX

What hast thou done to be tormented still,
Tumultuous water? or on what art bent?
What is thy hope or dread, or task or will?
Strange thought-electrifying element!
For evermore thou'rt wrung and riven and rent,
Wild as the deluge of some new despair;
How to the awed sense thou seem'st thus headlong sent,
To melt the very earth and drown the air,
And whelm a weltering world in gathering surges there.

CCCXXXI

And if the bow of promise burst the cloud
After some sweeping storm, for thee 'tis vain,
These eddies hurrying in tempestuous crowd,
Distract those hues divine and shattering stain
With ghastly horror, as the starry plain,
By night they make, in their distorting glass,
No mighty field where radiant spheres remain,
But one where troubled meteors shuddering pass,
Glimmering with lurid light, a mixed yet monstrous mass.

CCCXXXII

The whitening waves still raise their own wild dirge—
'Tis as the indignant might of ocean rolled
Here, all the foam of all his billowy surge!
With that fierce sway, that may not be controlled,
(So sheeted with pale froth the tide behold,)
And all the echoes of his haughty cries
Of stern defiance—terrible and bold!
Such sounds of awe go storming up the skies
With an o'erpowering strength, a sound that never dies.

218

CCCXXXIII

How dizzying is the race these currents run,
Like snow-drifts round, their feathery foam is strown!
Rocking upon their restless waves the sun,
The o'erbubbling waters chafe and hissing groan,
On high a cloud of vapoury mist is thrown,
In which that sun his quenched beam faintly dips,
Like that cold breath through the frore nostrils blown
Of Death's pale horse, shown in the Apocalypse,
Whose track's a boundless void, whose blank eye an eclipse!—

CCCXXXIV

The waving of whose hoar bleak mane appears
The grey Annihilation's banner still!—
She followeth on, where silence palls the spheres,
As his dim shadow, drear and deep and chill,
And where that falls, there is nor power nor will,
Motion nor meaning—space grows one lone spot,
She buildeth Uncreation with strange skill,
And life and death are in her place forgot;
She knolleth with stark lips, “If I am, It is not!”

CCCXXXV

The booming of the waves!—they sweep, they burst,
Meet but to madden—mingle but to clash,
Ever at their distraction's last and worst,
Like lightnings launched 'gainst lightnings, lo! they flash!—
Like whirlpools whelm'd by whirlpools writhing dash
On to destruction with delirious bound;
'Tis a most foaming shock—a billowy crash,
Methinks the firmament seems rocking round,
Is the earth remaining still, on her foundations sound?

219

CCCXXXVI

The torrents and the rapids darkening fling
Their fierce tempestuous terrors through my soul,
There, there, they bound with more than cataract's spring,
The waters—the strong waters waste the whole,
She is a weed in their wild power's controul,
The thousand-thundering waters—how they lave
The very thoughts that wracked and weltering roll!—
Sucked down into that hollow-whirling grave,
Where seem an hundred storms in prisoned wrath to rave.

CCCXXXVII

And yet 'tis in that soul the mirrored rage
Of those swift torrents shows more stern and dread!
As these, while fierce their watery wars they wage,
The trembling stars,—seen glistening overhead,
Glass back all shattered on their surging bed,
So my lashed thoughts swept—maddening to a storm,
Glance back the whirlpools that seem tame and dead
Compared with those that their tumultuous swarm,
Displays, convulsed, confused, distorted from all form.

CCCXXXVIII

Dizzied and deafened, dazzled and o'erpowered,
The fainting spirit, worn and 'wildered, reels,
The bursting skies seem o'er it stream'd and showered,
It dreams a chaos and a tempest feels,
As tho' 'twere wound round those still eddying wheels,
That foaming sweep, where 'gainst the rocks they boil,
Whirled to worst madness, (while such torture deals
Some murderous foe unpitying,) in the coil
'Tis crushed, wrung, riven, and made the uproarious tumult's spoil.

220

CCCXXXIX

Calmer at length the mighty river grows,
The hollow-sounding breakers howl and hiss,
And chafe and clash no more; the tides repose;
And never calm, more grateful seemed than this,
Breathing around the fulness of its bliss;
The bellowing roar yet echoes to the ear,
But plunged and chained within their own abyss
The desperate waters seem, and we may steer
O'er a new liquid world that smiles fair opening here.

CCCXL

The roar of breakers—the all-tremendous sweep,
The booming, boiling surge, the impetuous rush,
The rapture of their rage, where bound and leap
The flashing torrents forth, like streams that gush
Hot from cleft veins, which life's quick ardours flush,
The strong-resounding din, the on-thundering roll,
Oh! though now gathereth this contrasted hush,
Not yet do these resign their fierce controul,
Far, full and far they sound, they sound still through the soul!

CCCXLI

Soon past the Elizabethan fort they go,
An outwork of the Turkish strong-hold near;
New Orsova!—yon hill with sunset's glow
Upon the crest it doth high-towering rear,
A glorious view commandeth; 'tis placed here,
The last imperial watch-post stands; there, see
A shallow stream, the Cserna runneth clear,
'Twixt the Austrian realms and rude Wallachia free
Its silvery thread doth wind, a glittering boundary.

221

CCCXLII

Clustering together, yet scarce worth the name
Of village, some few wicker hovels stand,
Clay-plastered, near, most frail their tottering frame;
Close by, a beacon pole, a long straight wand
Is placed to rouse and to alarm the land,
If apprehended peril need such aid,
And aught against that land's calm peace is planned,
White 'midst dark cypresses and poplars' shade
The Turkish minarets gleam, on yon strong isle displayed.

CCCXLIII

At distance seen, these shine with good effect,
But much I doubt me, on a nearer view
Were you those walls and bulwarks to inspect,
The illusion should depart, for ruins strew
The half-deserted town; a wretched few
Remain therein, beneath the Pacha's sway.
Now Conrad's thoughts a happier train pursue,
No more with wild emotions wrung are they,
Nor all o'erstrung with strange and passionate dismay.

CCCXLIV

That Turkish fortress won his long regard,
Defence and dwelling of the Ottomite,
'Tis well his European fortunes barred
All farther progress—bless, oh, bless yon sight!
The cross upreared in its pure simple might,
Beside the rolling waters, that have seen
Ere now its host of worshippers in flight,
Before the shouting infidels—serene
It now maintains its post, nor shall declining lean!

222

CCCXLV

Hark! what strange sounds accost the astonished ear,
Rising on wings melodious high and higher,
Ringing with piercing sweetness far and clear,
More thrilling than the tones of th'artful lyre,
Or peal of bells, or conch-notes wild, or quire
Of voices to sweet instruments well set,
Surely they breathe from yon heaven-kissing spire!
Listen, oh, listen! they have ceased not yet,
'Tis,—'tis the muezzin's call from the echoing minaret.

CCCXLVI

Listen! for Earth and Heaven seem listening now,
The farthest depths of the awed, rapt spirit hear!—
O'erpowered with adoration, fain to bow,
And longing to make answer with a tear.
Listen! those sounds are floating far and near—
Are angels hovering in the air, that call
To mortals with those plaintive accents, dear,
While from above these showers of music fall,
Converting the air to one bright ark of worship all?

CCCXLVII

An ark of adoration's holiness,
Which these most startling sounds pierce through and through—
Listen! and let these tones thy spirit bless,
They rise, they ring with power and fulness new.
Oh! linger on the long, last “Allah Hu!”
“There is no God but God—come, come to prayers:
Lo! most high God!—to prayers!” those sounds pursue
The soul long after slumberous silence bears
The sway again, and smoothes all the echo-ruffled airs.

223

CCCXLVIII

Soon at Alt Orsova they disembark,—
Those wearied voyagers;—a gloomy eve,
For heavy rains come on—'tis cold and dark;
Nor friends they find, nor welcome they receive,
(For travel still must of such things bereave,)
No hailing hand is stretched to greet them well:
Ah! how can men their pleasant homesteads leave,
To rove midst strangers and midst strangers dwell;
Oft on their saddening minds must tenderest memories swell.

CCCXLIX

Heavier and heavier pours the soaking rain,
Thicker yet thicker, that chill moisture falls;
Huddled in groupes of twos and threes remain
That motley crowd, no hostelrie's rude halls
Afford them cheer; at length as to their stalls
Loosed steers are driven, so these are marched away
To Schupanek's dull Lazaretto walls,
Drenched to the skin, and chilled, and shivering they
Plod ancle-deep in mire and thick adhesive clay.

CCCL

Closely cooped up in cheerless quarantine,
Doth Conrad wile away the weary days;
The Lazaretto's narrow boundary-line
He may not pass, his Thought impatient strays,
That unimpeded treads the wild free ways
Of Nature, noblest in her aspect here,
Bold hills around their towering foreheads raise,
Where verdant forests in deep pride appear,
Though summer waneth now, the autumnal days are near.

224

CCCLI

The torrents, and the rapids, and the floods!—
Then did he pine to hail their power once more,
And those high mountains—those wide-sweeping woods—
How doth he pant to climb them and explore!
Or when the night winds through the forest roar,
That rock the darkness on their tossing boughs,
Or when the noon's full fervours o'er them pour,
In vain he breathes such fond and passionate vows,
He must remain where nought may cheer, or charm, or rouse.

CCCLII

And yet not so! e'en in that joyless den
Apt food he finds for fancy and for thought;
And while we dwell amid our fellow-men
Such interest may be found whene'er 'tis sought;—
Home to his heart that truth e'en there was brought.
With guards, at stated hours, was he allowed
To roam from yard to yard, like captives caught,
And caged appeared the melancholy crowd,
Distributed around, in discontent avowed.

CCCLIII

In separate companies were these disposed,
(The humbler ranks dwelt huddled in dense heaps)
A narrow court, with lofty walls enclosed,
A lowly cot, where on rough pallet sleeps
The guarded prisoner (for strict watch aye keeps,
His careful sentinel,) a bench,—a well,
Such was the Lazaretto, where time creeps
As his wings, too, were clipped in captive's cell.
Yet ever and anon some pleasant chance befell.

225

CCCLIV

Taking his rounds, appeared to Conrad's view,
In one of the outward courts, a curious sight—
The gates' strong bars, thick set, he gazeth through,
And marks a barbarous company all dight,
In shaggy gear, of seemly form and height,
Yet most unseemly in their state and hue,
Of Egypt's plague doth hint their noisome plight,
More dingy than the ground on which they strew
Their sheep-skins for a couch, that coarse—uncleanly crew.

CCCLV

Unshorn, unwashed, unpurified are they,
Yet jovial-merry seem. The sooth to tell,
One vamps and botches up his strange array,
Another lowers the bucket in the well;
These a wild chorus shout, with deafening yell,
While those around the area leap and run,
Some with hoarse guttural voice rude histories spell,
And in the centre of the court lies one
Stretched on the ground at length, full basking in the sun.

CCCLVI

These were Wallachian swineherds, men uncouth,
With matted locks depending from their head,
Unpleasing in their aspects these in sooth,
But yet the thoughts of Conrad back they led
To those proud days of Rome when their sires bled
In her august arenas! for these are
The Dacians of old name! by tyrants shed
Their fathers' blood in the amphitheatral war,
Sank in the dust, yet rose,—rose thence Rome's pride to mar.

226

CCCLVII

In gladiatorial conflicts slaughtered, sank
By hundreds, thousands, the injured victims, brought
From the far Danube's desolated bank,
As though man's life in very truth was nought,—
And murderous deeds long unavenged were wrought:
But yet the hour came!—the conqueror's crown'd car rolled
O'er the black gore of those that helpless fought
In vain!—their reeking blood would not grow cold!—
It stains the dazzling spokes, and clogs the wheels of gold.

CCCLVIII

Three hundred Triumphs are by One obscured,
A stern barbaric One, whose bannered pride
Blazing with light that might not be endured—
The heavens, earth, air, with blood's dire colour dyed,
While rocking flames laid waste from side to side
The abode of gods, lo! the all-o'ershadowing Rome!—
And Ruin stalked with earthquake-shaming stride,
O'er toppling tower and tottering fane and dome,
And men groaned out their souls, for a World's end was come!

CCCLIX

Thus musing, Conrad silently remained,
Gazing on that rough group, so strangely dressed,
High, hairy caps rose o'er their foreheads stained,
Broad, weighty girdles round their waists are pressed,
Securing their most shapeless shagged vest;
With leathern greaves their sinewy legs are bound;
Uncombed, uncut, upon their shoulders rest
Their locks, with those huge hairy helmets crowned,—
So garbed, they paced or paused—or grovelled on the ground.

227

CCCLX

He quits these swineherds now in their foul den;
Full well, I ween, their swine are cleanlier far
Than these uncivilized and barbarous men!
Back he returns, submits to bolt and bar,
And sadly hails the dawning evening star
That brings to him no solace and no friend;
Yet hath he comrades, who right welcome are,
When at fixed hours, like him, they rove unpenned,
But the intercourse with these at day's decline must end.

CCCLXI

Chief among these are two calm Turks; the one
All courteousness and kindliness and grace;
The other doth familiar friendship shun,
Impenetrably grave his moveless face,
Through signs must these their mutual meaning trace,
Since but few words of Turkish tongue knows he,—
That stranger of the distant island's race,
Who wanders far bright lands renowned to see,
Yet his companions these, are found continually.

CCCLXII

The least reserved, a Hadji's honoured name
Affixeth to his own; to Mecca's shrine
All who have pilgrims been such style may claim;
And thence he cometh, though in life's decline,
With sweeping beard, that doth all silvery shine,
And bending form, he failed not to fulfil
Those high injunctions, which he deems divine!—
But scrupulously studying word and will,
Shapes his descending course by Mahomet's precepts still.

228

CCCLXIII

A sacred shawl, from Mecca's hallowed loom,
With costly sheen, his furrowed temples binds,
From Mecca comes the precious, pure perfume,
Whose fragrance still of blessed scenes reminds;
A Mecca sash about his waist he winds,
With Mecca's beads his busy fingers play;
Yet this benign old man still Conrad finds
Kindly attentions ever prompt to pay,
To one whose faith's estranged, far as his land away!

CCCLXIV

Though thus assiduous found to Duty's call,
To Islamism's faith a devotee—
Observant of its claims and service all—
No fierce and angry fanatic is he,
But ever just and kind and frank and free;
Removed from prejudices rash and stern,
Yet to his faith attached most zealously—
Methinks lives many a Christian soul might learn
Sage lessons from his lips—nor such, contemning, spurn.

CCCLXV

Most liberal was his large, capacious heart,
Pure, nobly candid was his generous mind;
He could not tame or torture to an art,
Spontaneous feelings springing undesigned,
With each fine fibre of his being twined;
Spirits of his high order cannot err,
In proving, still compassionately kind,
Heaven needs not man to be the chastener,
Conscience its regent is, in each man's soul—hear her!

229

CCCLXVI

“Salaam Aleikoum!” Peace be with thee, Peace!
Ah!—how that heart, the wrung and racked and riven,
Wished 'twere a charm to bid its fevers cease—
That salutation, full of peace and heaven,
Unto the faithful from the faithful given,
But by Baïractar unto Conrad oft
Pronounced—unmixed with harsh assumption's leaven,
With fervent tones, as he would gladly waft
Such best boon to his Soul, grave, fervent tones, and soft.

CCCLXVII

Blest be those tolerant natures, just and mild—
Warm in his veins the milk of kindness ran!
With the fine, healthful instinct of a child
He hails the brother ere he marks the man!
Nor seeks, nor heeds the hidden faults to scan;
He feels that all have such—nor asks to know
If more or less crowd in one bosom's span;
Beyond such petty dreams his feelings go—
'Tis his loved Maker's work—he still must love below!

CCCLXVIII

Calm as a Santon evermore he seemed,
At peace with Heaven and Earth—himself and Thee;
Little of evil or of guilt he dreamed,
His thoughts were tempered too religiously—
Large as large love was his deep soul and free;
The peace of heavenly-minded gentleness
Spread o'er his tranquil aspect, thou mightst see;
Most faithfully did he himself address
Unwearyingly to prayers—each pious act no less.

230

CCCLXIX

Oftimes together he and Conrad stay—
Hadji Baïractar brings his gemmed chibouque,
And wileth thus the weary hours away,
Enveloped in dissolving clouds of smoke;
In attitude composed—with peaceful look—
Couched on his carpet, wrapp'd in calm repose;
Then doth he count his beads—his white beard stroke—
While gently-breathed ejaculation shows
His placid mind's content, till comes drear Evening's close.

CCCLXX

Mashallah! guards and bolts and chains remind
The friends of things they would forget full fain;
Each in his separate keep must dwell confined;
There grates the bolt, and yonder clanks the chain,
With close-barred gates must they till morn remain;
Then shall the interdict, withdrawn awhile,
Permit the prisoners to go forth again,
And bask them in the lovely noon-tide's smile,
Greet their companions well, and quit their clay-built pile.

CCCLXXI

It came to pass Baïractar at the board
Of Conrad sate, of his plain fare he ate,
Exchanging many a kind and flattering word,
Naming a fair and sumptuous Ziafet,
That little, lowly feast before them set.
Hung round his neck a blessed gem behold
A rich and consecrated amulet,
Whereon engraved, more precious than pure gold,
The Khorsee text appears—of hallowed power untold.

231

CCCLXXII

Fair shows his garb—his robes of curious sheen—
Jewelled the light and costly arms he bore,
While mildly dignified appears his mien,
According well with that rich dress he wore,
Thick-flowered, and brightly dyed his palampore;
His turban's splendid folds were rolled with care;
His loose, broad tchakchyrs were embroidered o'er,
And many a fair adornment he might spare,
And yet a princely garb of proud pretensions wear.

CCCLXXIII

His antery low descends beneath the knee,
O'er this the caftan hangs, with sweeping flow,
Around the waist 'tis fastened gracefully,
By the broad girdle, glittering with rich show,
The djubbeh robe doth o'er the caftan go,
In front thrown open wide, curtailed far more,—
With short, loose sleeves;—o'er this descending low,
The stately benych trails upon the floor;
Slippers of yellow hue upon his feet he wore.

CCCLXXIV

Still are they sitting at their cool repast,
“Bismillah!”—thanks!—the food is good and rare;
Sudden uprose he, and the carpet cast
In haste upon the ground;—'tis the hour of prayer;
Humbly himself he then prostrateth there;
Absorbed most deeply he remaineth long,
His forehead strikes, with reverential air,
Against the ground, while ceases not his tongue;—
Such would he still have done, assembled throngs among.

232

CCCLXXV

Hadji Baïractar and his friend must part,
Right glad to 'scape the Lazaret I ween,
But sorrowing each, with touched and feeling heart,
That they no more can be as they had been,
Perchance ne'er more to meet on earth's wide scene:
The Turks together wend upon their way;
The grave one, judge I, by his garb of green,
An emir ranks for such is their array—
From Mahomet springs their race—his high descendants they.

CCCLXXVI

“Vida!” with many a salutation kind,
From good Baïractar Conrad parted now;
The Turks to seek Belgrade's strong town designed,
That frontier-fortress that disdained to bow
To haughty Amurath, when its bristling brow
Looked o'er his hostile powers, yet later deigned
Bend to great Solyman—till nobly thou
Bavarian Maximilian!—well regained!
Since then its rule changed oft—by Servia now retained.

233

PART III.

I

Since now the tedious quarantine is o'er,
Conrad his way towards fair Mehadia bent,
Bosomed in woods and hills, her aspect wore
A charm of countless conquering beauties blent:
Pleased for awhile could he here pitch his tent;
But Nature beckons to less bounded feast,
His heart's strong hunger had kept lengthened lent,
Such fast that holy hunger but increased;
Ne'er soared with such high joy wild bird from cage released!

II

He quits Mehadia, cradled in the glen,
For warm sulphureous torrent-springs renowned;
That forest threads, where wild beasts have their den;
For wolves and shaggy bears therein abound,
Oft by the adventurous hardy sportsman found;
And purposed through the interior to proceed,
Of that wild country—erst one battle ground—
No more the old river's gleam his course shall lead,
But o'er the Hungarian plains he is resolved to speed.

234

III

Yet much he grieveth that he thus must miss
The gorge terrific—the defile sublime,
Where seems the river lost in deep abyss—
Nor Trajan's tablet reach,—defaced by time,
And those wild smoke-wreaths dun, that towards it climb,
From fires by fishermen and herdsmen lit,
Beneath it on the shore, nor hear the chime
Of sounding waves, where Kazan's rock doth sit,
Throned midst these waters deep—o'ershadowed—cleft by it!

IV

The gorge, the streights, the rocks, he may not view,
Nor Golumbacz' old cavern, where, 'tis said
By legends quaint, St. George the dragon slew,
From whose foul carcase, some assert are bred
Those swarms of winged musquitoes—plague and dread
Of voyagers here,—their prey,—nor may he seek
The town of Semlin, nor those strange streets thread!—
Turk, Servian, German, Croat,—Jew and Greek,
Gipsey, Illyrian—there, their various dialects speak!

V

Nor Peterwaradein's rock-built bulwarks hail,
The bold Gibraltar of the Danube's wave!
Near which Eugene taught the Ottomans to quail,
And the sharp sword dug many a soldier's grave,
While ghastly wounds the thirsty weapons gave:
Vainly the thrilling cry, “Amaun,” was raised,
Maddening with fury, who could stop to save?
So wild the wrath in every breast that blazed,
At their own deeds of death the warriors glared amazed.

235

VI

But Peterwaradein's Towers have holier claim;
'Tis said, from that most zealous champion old,
Peter the Hermit, these derived their name,
Who, journeying thro' broad Europe, strong and bold,
Electrified the impetuous, roused the cold;
Bade kings their sceptres, sharpening edge to swords,
And the Crusade's proud banners first unrolled,
While hung a listening world upon his words,
Whose echoes thrilled and shook all hearts' awakened chords.

VII

Nor at Mohacs made he due fitting pause,
Where Solyman, the mighty Soldan famed—
He, the magnificent—the Prophet's cause
Maintained in might—and Nazareth's champions tamed.—
Disastrous hour!—how dread a blow was aimed,
Even then at Christendom! 'twas all in vain
The royal leader his brave hosts inflamed
With hopes of victory they were ne'er to gain:
How his crushed country bled at every pore and vein!

VIII

Cowered, quailed beneath the annihilating foe,
The thousands who had gathered to that ground,
Summoned by signal that the warlike know,
Borne by swift messengers of fate around,—
The “Bloody Sabre!”—where that waved—was bound
The ponderous breastplate on, at once, and none
Paused till the place assigned was duly found—
That Bloody Sabre redly gleaming shone,
Some dread earth-comet, risen, to blot out star and sun!

236

IX

Portentous herald of War's plagues and wrongs,
From hand to hand, leagues after leagues 'twas sped;
From village borne to village, while fierce throngs
Of startled warriors thickly mustering spread
Confusion round—that seem'd to rouse the dead!
So in the Caledonian Highlands, stirred
The Fiery Cross, full oft, to vengeance dread,
The indignant clansmen, prompt and proud to gird
The sharp sword on, while far, the panting Courier skirred!

X

Dreadful the ensanguined horrors of that field,
No living tongue might e'er recount them all!
Not shattered helm alone, and shivered shield,
Lay stained, no more their splendours to recall;
But crosiered pride, but sacerdotal pall,
Were trampled where that ground the ruddiest blushed,
And stoles of state and pomps pontifical—
Where the Archiepiscopal Avengers rushed,
Threatening the Crescent's fall—alas! 'twas they were crushed.

XI

They and the Cross that they had vowed to raise
Above the silvery-shining, glittering foe;
The Cross that in the Crescent's paly blaze,
So oft had sunk, o'erpowered and now that blow
Dealt 'gainst its strength, presaged unfathomed woe:
But other years beheld that loss retrieved,
Charles of Lorraine and brave Eugene crushed low
The unholy emblem;—Hungary smiled, reprieved;—
Those princely leaders twain a victory bright atchieved!

237

XII

But to that deadly, desperate Moslem day
Yet turn awhile—a day of wrath and ill,
Then broke the sceptre of thy regal sway,
Devoted Louis!—then thy pulse stood still,
And thy heart's royal blood grew black and chill,
Thine and thy kingdom's darkly yawning grave,
At once seemed dug;—yet doubtless to fulfil
Intentions high and holy—though deep wave
Of mystery o'er them spread, unfathomed—these shall save!—

XIII

Not in the height and heat of strife he fell,
Where the foam-tossing chargers plunge and stamp,
The old chroniclers of that dark history tell,
Drooped, faultering spark by spark, life's fluttering lamp,
In Czetze's foul and suffocating swamp,
Strangling his soul out—while within his throat,
Choaked by the deadly ooze and vapours damp,
The gurgling groans sank faint to scarce-heard note,
The rattling shrieks appeared like faintest sighs to float.

XIV

Better, far better, surely, to have died
As died the boast and flower of Magyar War—
The Magnates of the land, his kingdom's pride,
That fell, deep-seamed with many a glorious scar,
Or those, the thunder-bearing prelates, far
In battle's paths advancing, dreaming still
They there were led by bright Salvation's Star,—
That proud Church-Chivalry, that deemed the will
Of their bless'd Master was—that they should smite and kill.

238

XV

Not their true path 'twas surely!—not their place;—
Theirs—theirs the holiness of peace to preach!—
To reconcile and raise the human race,
Nor wield the murderous sword, but 'suasive speech,
The keys of Heaven for guilty man to reach,
And not to fan the fires of strife and broil,
To soften, to enlighten, and to teach;
Converts, not victims, making with their toil,
To sow the seeds of love, not reap black Hatred's spoil.

XVI

There met they, twice an hundred thousand Foes,
They that should hail Mankind as one dear Friend!—
Their lives that were to most serene repose
Made holy, there met fierce tempestuous end,
And their last thoughts did raging fury rend!
Who that the conflict joins, but shares the fire,
The warrior's zeal, that doth all words transcend?—
Maddening with the unextinguishable ire
That urges on and on, and cannot faint or tire.

XVII

The astucious churchmen, cautelous and keen,
Though with their occupation scarce it suits
E'en to wage warring words—had better been
Engaged in controversial, close disputes,
In conclave high, than feeding on dire fruits
Of open discord there, black, blasted, banned,
The Olive of Peace seemed shivered to its roots—
When they who should have grasp'd it with pure hand,
Cast it aside to seize the accursed and blood-stained brand.

239

XVIII

Not such their province, such their calling now;
A tempered zeal should theirs be, pure and high;
Ill could assort the blood's tempestuous flow
With the apostolical serenity,
Which, breathing of the beatific sky,
Should fill their spirits who to such bright path
Are called—are marked for such high dignity;
The armour of righteousness, and not of wrath,
They should bind firmly on—which power triumphant hath.

XIX

Not to those places Conrad made repair,
From these the actual course he took was far;
His path through Lugos lay, nought paused he there,
But onwards pressed to bulwarked Temeswar;
And Zegadin both famed in ancient war;
'Twas at the first encamped, with host immense,
The second Mustapha, whose fortune's star
Set in deep gloom, when marched he forth from thence,
To battle with Eugene, the brave, the gallant prince.

XX

Towards Zegadin he marched, but swift the foe,
O'ertook him, fired with hopes of victory;
Near Zeuta struck the dire, decisive blow,
And forced the Sultan and his hosts to fly;
Escape's sole path for Mustapha might lie
Across the flowing Theisse, and this he passed
By rude-built flying bridge, full hastily;
Half of the Turkish host, with fear aghast,
Already had crossed o'er, swept on by Terror's blast.

240

XXI

But lo! the enraged Imperialists appeared,
And thus were the Ottomans constrained to turn;
Now curled with desperate ire the vizier's beard;
Now shall the heart of battle beat and burn;
Now rage the furious, and now stand the stern.
But see! a wild and hideous scene ensues,
The bridge breaks thundering down; as from an urn,
Now pour life's torrents,—blood the ground bedews—
The lurid-shrouded sun seems clothed in crimson's hues.

XXII

But so the Imperialists have now to fight,
But with a portion of the foeman's force,
Who, from retreat cut off,—in hopeless plight,
Divided from the rest,—with no resource,
Fall slaughtered on that spot, without remorse!—
Or, driven by thousands, sink in the o'erflowed stream;
Thence bubbling groans arise, choak'd mutterings hoarse,—
While many a spouting shriek and strangling scream
Rings wild on the echoing air, that rent with these doth seem.

XXIII

Ten thousand drowning strugglers there expired,
And twenty thousand of their brethren fell
On that most fatal ground; meanwhile retired
The Sultan in disguise enveloped well—
For so the historians of those annals tell—
Unto his camp at Temeswar, and there,
Till joined by his crushed army's wreck, did dwell;
Dire is their loss, and deadly their despair,
And heavy is the grief the foiled survivors share.

241

XXIV

A score of Pachas on that day were slain!
There foremost fighting, nerved with deathless hate,
Fell the Grand Vizier on that fearful plain—
'Twas said, with hopes of proud success elate—
The Moslems little recking of their fate—
Hundreds of tumbrils huge had posted near,
With chains and gyves and handcuffs for their freight,
Meant for their foes!—thus blindly mortals steer!
How vain are their designs, how weak their thoughts appear!

XXV

The Austrian Imperialists were now possessed
Even of the seals of the Islam Empire's state;
The Soldan's gorgeous tent's their prize confessed,
Rich, costly spoils besides, their beck await;
Treasures the meanest share, that once the great
Most gloried in;—so turneth Fortune's wheel;
So doth Heaven's will man's thoughtless pride abate,
And deep, mysterious judgments darkly deal;
Its power breaks spear and bow, and snappeth threatening steel.

XXVI

Speeds Conrad on through Hungary's lengthening plains,
That little owe to man's improving hands—
Where barrenness with gloomy silence reigns—
Spread like the long, long steppes of Tartary's lands,
Or waste that in Arabia's clime expands;—
Yet mid these plains smiles, ever and anon,
A hamlet that in lonely quiet stands,
And still his gaze dwells eagerly upon
Those peaceful haunts of men,—which kindly interest won.

242

XXVII

The Hungarian plains still spread before his view,
The soil's rude sons stalked by with uncouth gait;
With features rough, of weather-beaten hue,
On the wild wind their wilder locks streamed straight,
Or on their thick-thatched shoulders—massive weight!
Hung dark, for thatch-like seemed, in sooth, to be
Their fleecy bundas, which might scarce abate
Their strange fierce aspects; near a straggling tree
Some rested, while hard by their herds were grazing free!

XXVIII

Meekly the village maidens, with sweet grace,
Past by, in fair apparel, rich and bright;
Their hair's thick-braided lengths left bare the face,
And mixed with coloured streamers, long and light,
Danced on the dallying winds, and charmed the sight:
Broidered on palest blue, their vestments fell
Gracefully round their forms, but fitting tight
At their small waists, their symmetry showed well:—
Long might the stranger's eye on these delighted dwell.

XXIX

Bright crimson aprons, worked with finest care,
Rich pendants, hung in the ear, of gems and gold,
Complete their dress; but their transcendent air,
So lofty, yet so light, may ne'er be told—
No daughters of the Shepherd-kings of old—
By streams Arcadian, in Earth's golden time,
And years of flowering, showed of lovelier mould,
Or nobler, statelier gait, in youth's fair prime,
Such roses flush the wastes of Hungary's frowning clime.

243

XXX

These European pampas—these broad plains—
These wide-spread puztas shall he soon forsake,
And dwell where civilized refinement reigns;
And there, perchance, shall Memory fondly wake,
And o'er the past a saddening survey take,
Long for the wild, and languish for the waste,
Since oft the exhausted, fevered heart must ache,
Feeding on fruits all torture to the taste—
All ashes at the core—abortive growths of haste.

XXXI

Wild tribes dispersed thro' Hungary's realms are found,
Of various origin and name and place;
Here the Dzigainees—lawless bands!—abound,
The Hungarian Gipseys, a mysterious race—
Their loose elf-locks stream round the o'ershadowed face;
Their fierce, black eyes glare, filled with sorcerer light,
And their rude natures in their mien you trace;
But other colonists these lands invite,—
German and Gaul,—for rich their soil when tilled aright.

XXXII

Two mighty cities at each other gaze—
Ofen and Pesth—the ancient and the new!—
Their rival crowns of royal towers they raise,
Swelling in stateliest beauty on the view.
Day dawned upon these towers, Night's shades withdrew,
O'erpowered when first they broke on Conrad's sight,
The Morning's gray was brightening into blue;
The coming sun a sweeping sea of light
Before him rolled sublime—to wreck the astonished Night.

244

XXXIII

Behold in ruins half a city lie,
Old Danube rose in angry, fearful might,
All-conquering—shouting with tempestuous cry;
Before him thousands rushed in hurried flight,
But countless victims fed his fierce delight;
A watery avalanche, born of the snow
And melting ice, that sheeted him with white,
Burst wide, and swelled the water's sweeping flow,
The eruption of the tides then wrought unrecked-of woe.

XXXIV

Hark! what explosions rend the troubled air,
Louder than loud artillery's earthquake shock.
Lo! tossed on high the loosened icebergs there
Shiver 'gainst the echoing sky, as they would mock
The rushing burst of rockets!—crag and block,
Forced by the onsweeping waves, far round are whirled;
Down thundering grinds the roofs, the sparkling rock,—
Like bombs from mouths of threat'ning mortars hurled!—
That cold Vesuvius spreads pale mists, round all things curled.

XXXV

Like a Volcano of the Waves it roared,
Whose lava was lashed streams and ghastly foam;
And if no ashes forth this fiercely poured,
It left full many in its path!—crushed home,—
Fallen shrine, stark corpse, where'er did revelling roam
These yellow, turbid waters; storm-bell's peals
And wild alarums rung loud notes of doom;
Barks in the streets took place of rolling wheels,
Harsh on the pavements grate, at times, the unwonted keels.

245

XXXVI

Dishevelled women, in their great distress,
Went clamouring for their babes, they shriek—they flee—
Like souls in endless torture's bitterness;
And strong, brave men wailed—mourning heavily—
While round them yawned that new-created sea;
And when the waves receded—hideous sight—
From their foundations torn, how seemed to be
The prostrate houses, crushed to graves, where Night
And Death had fallen!—in vain, there poured the prying light.

XXXVII

Buda! in the angry, fiery days of old,
Conquered and captured wert thou, and enchained
By Solyman, the imperious and the bold—
He, the magnificent of Sultans!—reigned
His haughty Jannizzaries here, and stained
Thy streets with blood—fierce garrison and dread!—
Beneath whose sway the impoverished city waned;
These, with a tyrannous Vizier at their head,
And turbanned Pachas, long wild devastation spread.

XXXVIII

But not for evermore! in later years,
Lorraine's proud Prince and Baden's Markgrave came,
And drove with their victorious swords and spears
The intruders forth, with steel and scorching flame;
Then grew once more a nation and a name,
Long-fettered Hungary, which the Turkish yoke,
Through two-thirds of its realm, endured with shame;
But these the cords of stiff oppression broke!—
Right well the Avengers dealt the sharp and chastening stroke.

246

XXXIX

Ere this, was Sigismund Zapolya placed
In Soldanrie's stern power—that youthful king;—
And in his person was his realm disgraced:—
It was a sore and harsh and heinous thing—
The rampant infidels did scourge and wring
The land from side to side—'twixt Raab's proud stream,
And flowing Theisse, which doth his tribute bring
To Danube! Sire of Waves! the Crescent's beam
High in the ascendant towered, with dread portentous gleam!—

XL

And as a Turkish province grew the land;
Whose fierce oppressors little mercy showed;
Dire was the thrall, and choking was the band,
Heavy the fetter, sharp the torturing goad,
And seeds of wrath and discord still they sowed:—
That young boy-king beneath like yoke was laid,
Though dubious favours were on him bestowed;
Waywode of Transylvania was he made,
And banished there, while on his realm the vultures preyed.

XLI

Distracted Hungary! for how long thy soil
No ploughshare but the sword of chastening knew!
Hot dews of blood did seem to overboil
O'er thy fair fields, of deep, ensanguined hue;
Centuries and centuries didst thou struggle through
The ordeal of restless strife and red-hot war;
Bondage, invasions, broils, rebellions grew
Common to thee as daily courses are;
Still set thy Suns in blood—still stain'd rose Evening's Star!

247

XLII

Now the Emperors of the East and West each claim
The right to choose, and with high powers invest
The Transylvanian Waywodes:—steel and flame
Must ravage thee, and barbarous hordes infest;
Now thine own fiery nobles, dispossessed
Of some proud privilege—some fancied power,
Invite the foe, to rack thee from all rest!
Strange arbiters, in sooth, 'twixt Ghiaour and Ghiaour,
The Prophet's zealous hosts—but well these knew their hour!

XLIII

Then their wild Spahis and Tymariots flew
On the errands of mad ravage and despair;
And swooping on their prey, they smote and slew,
Nor deigned to pity, nor vouchsafed to spare;
Their dazzling scymetars glanced bright and bare,
Their pawing steeds like leaping lightnings flashed,
Scarce touching earth, but bounding through the air,
At headlong speed, afar they shouting dashed,
But through their victims' breasts the swift-hurled javelins crashed.

XLIV

But gallant Land! for thee now smiling are
Far happier auspices!—of loveliest ray,
In thine horizon gleams a brilliant star,
That chases doubt and gloom and fear away;
Peace, harmony, and order's hallowed sway—
Commerce and knowledge, laws and liberties—
Shall bid the country's mighty pulses play
With healthful vigour—while the favouring skies
Shall make thee laugh and blush with Plenty's golden dyes.

248

XLV

High honour to Szechenyi! patriot true!—
Purposing good with an intrepid mind—
Staunch to the last that bright aim to pursue—
On! and atchieve what thou hast well designed,
And bloodless laurels round thy temples bind!
All honour to Szechenyi! lift that name
Up to the sky, with victories pure entwined;
Its echoes sound not victories of War's fame,
But triumphs of fair Peace, that holier homage claim!

XLVI

Praise to Szechenyi! to the Patriot praise!
Still the indefatigable labourer he
In Hungary's trampled vineyards, which the old days
Saw spoiled and ravaged everlastingly,
Till that fair earth, which should so fertile be,
Those noble natures, that should soar so high,
Sunk in cold, arid sloth and apathy,
Forgot to seize the blessings of the sky,
And let the tide of Time roll all unheeded by.

XLVII

High honour to Szechenyi! and to all
Who aid him in his glorious task and proud;
The voices of the land's brave Fathers call,
And prompt and urge them from the star and cloud;
The voices of the people—not aloud,
But whispering in thanksgivings, blessings, praise,
Inspire them on their way; no shouting crowd
A sound so thrilling to the Soul could raise;—
Heaven's grace that murmur owns, and all their toil repays.

249

XLVIII

Old Danube's sovereign and majestic stream,
With all his watery powers and voices hails,
And hymns Szechenyi's name—deep as deep dream
He floweth on, and tells triumphal tales,
Teaching Bulgarian wilds and Euxine gales,
And bright climes of the uprising sun where be
His currents bound, like pilgrims—while ne'er fails
His power or pride—glad Truths exultingly!
And thy great name chimes forth! oh Patriot, praising thee.

XLIX

Proud stands the palace of the Palatine,
The Imperial Palatine, on rocky steep;
There, in the sacred chapel, of the line
Of Hungary's kings, the jewelled pomp they keep,
Honoured with fervent veneration deep,
That rich regalia, the palladium deemed
Of the ancient state; amid the dazzling heap
Saint Stephen's crown hath long transcendent gleamed,
Which still the Magyars thought with light celestial beamed.

L

The crown's brow-band was from Byzantium sent,
From the Emperor Michael, of the old Greek line,
To the first Geysa—princely ornament;
But the arched ribs, which each with each entwine,
Of burning gold, that doth o'erpow'ring shine,
Belonged unto a crown, the old scrolls declare,
Was fabricated all by hands divine!—
By the angels!—to Saint Stephen—gift most fair,
'Twas by Sylvester sent, throned on Rome's papal chair!

250

LI

Old Rakósfeld!—most memorable plain,
The Diet in past days assembled there—
Gathered a mighty and o'erwhelming train
In that most noble temple—the open air—
A glorious sight it was and proudly fair.
The ecclesiastics, in their state array,
The sacerdotal robes of pomp they wear
On high occasion, and with rich display,
Armed to the very teeth, the Magnates of wide sway.

LII

The mounted deputies there duly came,
Of vassals each a mighty retinue,
Drew with them, till that field of ancient fame,
At times presented to the astonished view
A vast and wondrous crowd, that swelled and grew
Even to a nation's numbers!—these remained
In tents, while such state-business was gone through,
As at the time proved urgent; then regained
Their distant homes, while here, once more calm silence reigned.

LIII

In yon museum are proud reliques stored,
Of worth historical; midst these are found—
Rakgotzki's deadly battleaxe and sword,
That rebel-chief, for valourous deeds renowned;
The armour in which Bathory's frame was bound,
The old goblet of Corvinus, these beside—
The marshal's truncheon-staff, which waved around
The Palfi in past years, with power and pride,
The selle of Lewis,—he, who vainly battling died.

251

LIV

Vain trophies! weak memorials! as we gaze,
What kindling thoughts come rushing o'er the mind!
There are—there are—who shall for future days
Far holier reliques proudly leave behind,
Even with their country's living core entwined—
Its good—its great prosperity—the seeds
That they have sown, far spread by every wind—
Memorials—monuments such fame ne'er needs,—
Szechenyi—Puthon! ye! for these, shall leave your deeds!

LV

I have full many cities, great and proud,
Seen in the horizon fade before mine eyes,
With all their spires and towers, a stately crowd,
As sunk in the earth, or swallowed in the skies,
But not so in my Soul their memory dies;
We travel far, and many a fresh scene view:
Wide is the world, but of more glorious size
The Soul is still; and thus doth she renew
A thousandfold those scenes in imaged clearness true!

LVI

And thus thought Conrad, as his way he took
From Pesth's proud walls, and with a dim regret
Repeated oft the long-reverted look;
For in the horizon, when crowned cities set,
Like sinking suns of glory, we forget,
In the pathetic triumph of that hour,
How many things of evil there have met,
To dim the sovereign splendours of their power,
And own but that proud pomp which forms, their dazzling dower.

252

LVII

Through Neudorf now he passed, and onwards went,
Yet not continuing by the public road;
Now forest-boughs above his head were bent,
That still the summer's richest greenness showed;
For scarce a leaf yet with the hectic glowed
Of mournful autumn—fair are Bajna's woods.
There the wind sounds as though a torrent flowed
Through the deep shades, where gloom unbroken broods,
The blast's voice through the boughs is as the roar of floods.

LVIII

Fair are the Magyar Magnate's proud domains!
Possessions territorial stretching wide,
Of shadowy forest and of hills and plains,
Support the claims of old ancestral pride;
Gaze freely where you will, from side to side,
The unbounded prospect spreading on the view,
Acknowledges one master; far descried,
Glad hamlets smile, or peep the dense shades through,
Of these thick, massy woods, deep seas of verdant hue.

LIX

Hark! the Bohemian Jägers blow their horns,
The echoes through the woods peal loud and long,
Each leaf, that every quivering spray adorns,
Thrills to the sound, as when a storm sweeps strong,
The bold clear notes, e'en glad as skylark's song,
Stir up the Soul—Oh! 'tis a ringing strain!
Ere long the tusked wild-boars shall dark among
These shades be glimpsed—they soon shall shun in vain
The glittering lance and knife borne by the gallant train.

253

LX

How cheerily those startling notes ring on
Through Bajna's sweeping breadths of forest-grounds,
Here oft the princely chase, ere day is done,
The stag-chase, thro' the awakened glades resounds;—
The tramp of steeds, the bay of deep-mouthed hounds!—
An hundred deer, with light elastic tread
Make glad the wild wood with their fearless bounds,
Crash the close boughs before the antlered head,
A shower of loosened leaves falls o'er their pathway shed.

LXI

And now goes forth a gay and gallant train,
The morn is beautiful as April's hours,
When all the loveliest sunshine lives again,
And golden grows each soft trace of their showers,
Mild zephyrs rise, with pure refreshing powers!—
Surely the season must indeed be spring,
Or autumn's scarce dawned days have snatched her dowers;
What sport!—what sport!—away! the green woods ring
With merriest notes—hark, hark! the wild boars forth they bring.

LXII

In verdant beauty arching o'er their heads,
A thousand woven boughs a dense screen make,
Like some deep emerald sky methinks it spreads,
That canopy which gentlest breezes shake,
Till every little leaf might seem to break
Forth into fairy music of its own;
Full many a thirst of thought man there might slake,
Fancy's sweet fables e'en as truths seem shown,
And round, outsmiles a world that breathes of bliss alone.

254

LXIII

Mark'st thou yon rugged peasant with his team,
His sheep-skin on his shoulders, waving free,
His coarse black locks, his brow by scorching beam
Of noon-day suns embrowned, and dark to see?—
Know that he boasts a prince's pedigree,
A name well blazoned in all state and style,
On the proud rolls of Magyar chivalry,
His fathers sleep in the old cathedralled aisle,
Where their high banners float and flush the hallowed pile.

LXIV

The clarion's lordly breath was hushed, that loud
The pompous herald might sound forth that name!—
Its echoes—were the mad shouts of the crowd,
The roar of tongues—the popular acclaim,
Historical, hereditary fame
Shone like some halo round it,—more, still more
Gathered renown about it, to make tame
Its past-by triumphs!—on the old Paynim shore,
'Twas thundered long and oft, when conquering warriors bore.

LXV

Oft at the kingly court 'twas echoed too,
By smooth-lipped chamberlain and silken page,
From lip to lip the lofty accents flew,
Ever respect and homage to engage;
Thus rolled it down from listening age to age,
With honourable augmentation proud,
Aggrandized oft on glory's sounding stage,
And ostentatious brave addition—loud
Still rang its trumpet-tone, of thrilling power avowed.

255

LXVI

The battle-thunders knew the war-cry well,
That pierced their uproar, with that proud name's sound!—
How did it cheerly through the tumult swell!
High at the tone, true loyal bosoms bound,
And red right hands, with strength redoubled round,
Deal the dread blow, and strike the clashing stroke;
E'en writhing in their death-pangs on the ground,
How followers leal, (though thick gasps th'accents choke,)
Still blessed that honoured name, till all their heart-strings broke.

LXVII

And yon poor peasant with the sun-scorched brow,
Earning his daily pittance by his toil,
Bears such high-sounding name of honour now,
The coarse-clad lowly labourer of the soil,
And in his veins the blood's clear currents boil,
With flow as haughty as they coursed of old
In his dead fathers'!—So he proves the spoil
Of vain pretensions—for he fain would hold
To such proud claims—would dwell in idlesse' lists enrolled.

LXVIII

The aristocratically proud and high,
The peasant-nobles—glorying in their birth,—
Scarce deem it suiteth with their dignity
To till the soil, to cultivate the earth,
But leave it oft in blank unfruitful dearth:
Full gladlier would they see the banners float,
Blazoned with splendours of historic worth!
Still at the Diet these give in their vote,—
Great privileges theirs, as well as names of note.

256

LXIX

Jealous are these of the ancestorial rights,
Which still they guard with keen and strenuous care;
Offended quickly too by wrongs and slights,—
Such is nobility's and beggary's heir,
The peasant-oligarch, who ill doth bear
His humbler part, inflated still he seems
With dreams, all substanceless as the empty air;
Unmeaning and unprofitable dreams,
While as one wronged by fate himself he sternly deems.

LXX

Such evils from that system strange arise,
Which evermore in Hungary hath prevailed,
Amid the high and princely families,
Vainly condemned, and uselessly bewailed;—
Miseries on miseries are from this entailed,
On those that needy yet ennobled are,
On vain, fantastic, weak desires impaled,
Which all their peace and all their prospects mar,
While they believe themselves raised o'er their fellows far.

LXXI

The ennobled sons of an ennobled sire,
His privileges, rank, and honours share;
Little inclined feel these, then, to retire
To private station, and with prudent care
Enrich themselves, but rather they prepare
Their future ruin oft, their share and store,
Squandering too lightly in the infectious air
Of like example, till they hold no more
Their patrimonial prize, soon brought to beggary's door.

257

LXXII

Then their despoiled descendants sorely rue,—
Ennobled like themselves,—their thoughtless deeds,
And drag a life of bitter suffering through,
While the proud heart aspiring vainly bleeds;
And thus are sown harsh discontent's foul seeds,
And much of bitterness with sloth entwined,
The impoverished land's improvement that impedes.
Now Conrad leaves Pannonia's realm behind,
And seeketh other scenes with ever-restless mind.

LXXIII

And now the Hungarian boundaries well are past,
Farewell, old bulwark 'gainst the Crescent's power;
Now the Austrian capital is gained at last,
Outshining fairly in the sunset's hour,
With dome and palace, and cathedral tower,
Here for brief while he purposeth to dwell,—
Brief while—for ceaseless, sleepless cares devour,
And on and on these urge him and impel,
While with o'er-torturing might these thrill his bosom's cell.

LXXIV

Turn to the vault where royal Reichstadt sleeps,
That stricken tree of promise and of pride;
Death with his cold and dull and shadowy deeps
Went o'er thee, swallowed in the engulphing tide,
Imperial boy, when hope seemed like a bride
Blushing beside thee! now o'er his sad bier,
Who in the beauty of his young soul died,
Ere aught had stained its fountains fresh and clear!—
A mournful moment pause, and shed deep feeling's tear.

258

LXXV

'Tis in the old church of the Capuchins
Those sacred ashes in all peace repose;
There many kingly tombs arise—one wins
The saddening soul from all the rest, though shows
That plain sarcophagus no pomp, nor throws
Around a gorgeous gloom, the heart to thee
Builds up a living monument; friends, foes—
Nay thou hadst none—here mourners true shall be—
Their tributary tears shall shed in sympathy!—

LXXVI

Tears! why?—thy Father, with his world-wide sway,
Won not such treasures to adorn his tomb:—
Though all the earth rocked beneath him in his day
Of boundless victory, when his breath was doom,
And of the King of kings he dared assume
The attributes, scorning, and gave forth command,
And mantled Nature in Fear's night of gloom,
And o'er Creation stretched a Shadowy Hand,
Then bade Blood's tides unite, the severed Sea and Land.

LXXVII

Tears! no!—too many caused he still to flow
In his storm-hour of triumph and of might!—
Dark rock of the old Atlantic! none bestow
Such sacred gifts on thee—chill dews of night,
And the sharp spray's salt dashing, must despite
Thy cold Inhabitant's imperial claims
Be the sole tears shed o'er thee—for the flight
Of the eagle whom Death's mightier power now tames,
Was to eclipse the sun, not reach and bless his beams.

259

LXXVIII

Monarchs might lay their sceptres at thy base,
Rock-Grave! in homage to his name who waved
His wide, o'er his assumed dominions—space!
Or plant the imperial standards there, now saved
From those which once their haughty folds enslaved,
Thine! the earth o'er-canopying banners spread
In victory's triumph—but should tears be craved,
Thou living bad'st such torrents to be shed,
Arch-anarchist of the earth! how should they mourn thee dead?

LXXIX

From the Austrian capital hastes Conrad soon,
That lonely pilgrim hastes to quit its walls,
Shaking the dust of cities from his shoon,
He loves to shun what there enchains, enthralls,
And like a blight o'er freeborn natures falls;
He pants to breathe the fresher, purer air
Of woods and plains, more dear than gilded halls,
And flourished domes of luxury's splendour;—there,
Tempestuously his heart is plunged in worse despair.

LXXX

Once more thy wakening thousands, busy Wien,
Throng thy late quiet and unechoing streets,
Once more grows animated all thy scene,
Once more the great heart of the city beats:
Two hours ago thou wert like still retreats
By mount and glen, where strife might never come,
Now the same tale thy lively scene repeats
Of mortal restlessness and weary doom,—
For man is no repose, save in the enshrouding tomb.

260

LXXXI

Trahah! gay sounds the trim postillion's horn,
Trahah! long echoing rings the inspiring peal,
'Tis merry journeying in the opening morn,
When once more 'gins to turn life's mighty wheel;—
Night hath uplifted her most crushing seal;
Now for the march of destiny again:
Wake, mortals! day hath strange things to reveal,
And many a King in her brief space shall reign,—
Hope, Fear, Joy, Triumph, Grief, and Death and Sin and Pain.

LXXXII

'Tis merry journeying in the jocund morn,
For few of these things deem in serious mood,
A new day to the year and the earth is born:
Buoyantly courses through the veins the blood,
As nought had ever choked or chilled its flood;
But not so with that lorn Wanderer, who now speeds
With painful progress still o'er many a rood,
With such dark dreams and worse his bosom bleeds,
And little of gay mirth he marks or finds or heeds.

LXXXIII

Now through Moravia are his footsteps led,
And there a pause he maketh for a while,
Where princely provinces for parks seem spread,
And shadowy forests sweep mile after mile,
And lofty chateaux built in stateliest style
Of palaced pride impress and charm the eye;
Here much he findeth that may well beguile
His fancy for a time right pleasantly;
Less troubled grows his mien, less frequent seems his sigh.

261

LXXXIV

With antlered forehead towering in full pride,
Bounds the strong stag, the freest of the free,
Through these rich woods so various and so wide;
And now he stops—stands—glares suspiciously
With full bright eye around beneath yon tree
Of massy foliage—e'en as carved in stone,
No movements there of head or limb may be,
Like some fair sculptured form most brightly shown,
There stands he from the herd divided and alone.

LXXXV

At gaze he stands—how glorious doth he look!
His dazzling eye burns like a fount of fire,
Bravely might he the deep-mouthed death-hounds brook,
Or with light flying springs elastic tire
Those foiled pursuers furious!—one step nigher—
Lo! he is gone, a very flash of speed!
With vaulting bounds, yet wilder and yet higher,
Scarce the eye followeth where his footsteps lead,
Swift even as thought he flies, with dizzying rush indeed.

LXXXVI

But, hush! the assembled herd come hurrying by,
Sudden and sweeping as a beauteous dream;
Their limbs seem many lightnings!—how each eye
Dilated glows with wild triumphant beam!
Ha! they are plunging proudly in the stream,
A forest of broad towering antlers waves
High o'er the waters that all troubled seem,
Flashing to spray around them as each laves
His heaving shining flanks, and breasts the flood and braves.

262

LXXXVII

Now from the waters spring, with gallant bound,
The forest's pride! sweet Heaven! a splendid sight.
How stand they firm and fast now on the ground,
Waving their antlers broad from left to right!
Their bathed sides glistening in the sunshine bright,
And reddening in its rich slow westering ray,
Their stately crests raised high in glorying might;—
A sound, a breath—off—off—they sweep away,
The speed of light should seem in their free limbs to-day.

LXXXVIII

Oft here the ringing horns resound—oft here
The undaunted blood-hounds well their part sustain,
While that loud blast inspires with jocund cheer!
“Bonne chasse! bonne chasse!” in the ancient Gallic strain,
These merry horns sound forth again, again,
The clear quick notes ring echoing far and wide,
Spur their fleet coursers fast the joyous train;
Ride on!—ride on!—with strength and courage ride,
Good sooth, the swift-limbed stag is shown a gallant guide.

LXXXIX

At bay he stands, in threatening posture now,
Magnificently fierce, in towering might!—
Then menaced with the armed terrors of his brow!—
In vain—his death is doomed, he falls, despite
His strength, his bravery all,—he falls, proud sight!
But hark! the pealing horns exulting play,—
Play “The Stag's Death!” with gladdening strains aright,
The kingly chase is finished for to-day,
To-morrow the wild boar shall give good sport and gay.

263

XC

The grisly brute forth rushes at full speed,
A pause—then poising well the long, keen spear,
A gallant hunter on a noble steed
Darts forth, swift dashing towards him; stung with fear,
Then doth the courser swerve, snort, foam, and rear,
Dreading those sharpened trenchant tusks, that threat
His unarmed limbs—manœuvring brings him near,
His fearless rider—vainly doth he fret,
Now for the stroke—the thrust—'tis vain, not yet! not yet!

XCI

The bristling foe hath turned short round, the steed
Bounds from the path, resisting spur and rein;
Another swift scours by, and takes the lead;
This time the long, light lance points not in vain,—
Plunged in his shoulder doth it fixed remain:
Now reckless grown shall be more furious wax,
Though forth the encumbering lance he thus must train,
Horse—rider he, all blind with rage, attacks,
Nor strength nor courage now—roused, stricken, tortured—lacks.

XCII

'Gainst yon white steed he turns with savage zeal;
With snorting start it veers, it wheels aside;
The tusk hath stricken from the horseman's heel
The glittering spur—which this did sheer divide,
And grazed the horse's flanks,—all wild and wide
The affrighted courser bursts with thundering bound,
Plunging across the plain; then fierce defied
The rider's efforts long to whirl him round,
Rushing at fearful rate, he dashes o'er the ground,

264

XCIII

Another, and another strikes and scathes
That swinish monster, wrung with sufferings sore:
Now here, now there he breathes his rage, and bathes
Their shuddering limbs with thickly streaming gore
Crimsoning the turf, all emerald green before;
Staggering they shrink, or maddening with the smart,
Dismayed and desperate front their foe no more,
But white with scattered foam they panting start,
While well their riders prove their finished skill and art.

XCIV

But now from loss of blood far feebler grown,
Breathless, exhausted, fainter strokes he deals;
He that gored gallant grey, and fiery roan,
And proud black barb, (each well his vengeance feels!—
These speed their flight, amazement at their heels,
Terror and phrenzy goading onward still!)
Sinks!—dies!—the jager-horn the “mort” loud peals,
Outstretched, his stiffening limbs grow stark and chill,
Well to the end did he his arduous part fulfil.

XCV

They mount fresh steeds, high mettled, free and fast;
Once more the poised and pointed lance prepare!
Starts a huge boar yet wilder than the last,
Stronger, more savage, from the dense shades there:
His hideous fangs the startled coursers scare;
They seek to flee, all trembling and aghast,
In vain; these dreaded tusks they yet must dare:—
Hark! rushing by as 'twere the tempest's blast,
Swift as a shot just launched, a mounted steed sweeps past.

265

XCVI

Soon followeth him another,—right in front
The dark bulk of the boar seems bowled along
Close, close to the earth;—mind!—now, the shock, the brunt,
The foremost horseman strikes, yet strikes him wrong,
Missing his aim;—the second speeds, ere long,
His error to retrieve, but wildly swerves
His horse aside, as from the lashing thong,
And ill his master's need thus meets and serves,
For that slight grazing touch the foe but fires,—but nerves!

XCVII

Once more, young gallant Rodolph! once again!—
Sharp threats thy spear, true points thy steady hand,
The victim's heart-blood shall thy good lance stain,
If thy scared horse the charge and shock but stand,
Obeying promptly so his lord's command;
But, ah! that glancing stroke hath galled the boar
To savage wrath—in vain the attack is planned,
With furious heat and haste, the ground he tore;
That hurt hath well sufficed to stir his vengeance sore.

XCVIII

Amazed, enraged, and fiercely roused he turns,
And at the horses flies with reckless ire,
With sudden fury, stung to madness, burns—
His small eye kindling to a coal of fire:
Take heed, thou princely rider! keen and dire,
Those deadly fangs, which thy good steed shall rue,
If thou with caution prompt not now retire!
Poise, point the lance—strike!—thrust it thro' and through,
But first thy steed wheel round—a circling sweep pursue.

266

XCIX

'Tis the steed's rapid course that aids the shock,
And gives the lightning-stroke redoubled force;
But see, disabled now, with deep-gashed hock,
Ungovernable grows the maddening horse,
The infuriate boar stabb'd fierce, without remorse,
The second steed, and plunged his tusks of fear
Deep in the groin,—a deadlier wound and worse!
Well may the reeling courser faintly rear,
The smoking entrails through that hideous wound appear.

C

Now hurrying come, with clattering hoofs of speed,
The gallant train unto the rescue sped,
But menaced by the gnashing foe, each steed
Loud snorting, in full foam of frantic dread,
Turns short, with vein-swoln neck and tossing head;
With ghastly gash, too, foully ripped and rent,
Their mangled comrades near, profusely bled;
They snuff the streaming gore's detested scent,
And dash impetuous round, on flight immediate bent.

CI

But mastered they must yield, and front again
Their fierce opponent; mustering all their power,
Measuring their distance well, midst that proud train,
Two dauntless horsemen mark! their steeds may cower;
Already gilds their hoofs the gory shower—
The intrepid boar that hunts them, hot and hard
May grind his fangs—but 'tis his final hour,
One lance hath pierced his flank, and one hath scarred
His crimsoned shoulder's point, scarce yet his powers are marred!

267

CII

In quick succession now spear followeth spear;
In mercy's name speed, speed the pang of death!
From many a wound spout forth red torrents clear:
Haste! in his heart the mortal weapon sheathe;
Totter his shivering limbs his weight beneath,
In giddy circles doth he faultering run,
Striking at all, but blindly!—fails his breath,
His filmed eye swims, the wheeling wretch can shun
No more the murderous thrust,—the barbarous sport is done!

CIII

Fair town of Brünn! cathedral-crowned! of old,
A fortress, with a lofty citadel!
Within thy dungeons found the free, the bold,
The patriotic Pellico his cell:
Yes! Silvio Pellico, constrained to dwell
Long in their gloomy walls, there nursed, despite
Bolts, bars, and chains, those thoughts unquenchable,
Which turned the darkness round to living light—
Forth from the soul it streamed, miraculously bright.

CIV

Here Trenk, the rugged leader, fierce and wild,
Of the bold Pandoors, that most warlike race,
Ended his stormy days, by blood defiled;
They, the rude vanguard, prompt the foe to face,
Of the Austrian armies, when those wars took place,
The wars of the succession, how did they
Spread devastation's barbarous plagues apace,—
Those savage sons of strife whose dread array
Where'er they passed impressed with horror's worst dismay.

268

CV

Mount where the episcopalian palace stands,
There spreads a prospect proud before the gaze.
Moravia's outstretched plains that height commands;
Far on all sides the eye exulting strays,
To where the blue Carpathian mountains raise
Their haughty fronts, majestically steep;
But such a boundless view 'tis vain to praise;
Behold it! let the soul, with circling sweep,
Together with the sense its scattered glories reap!

CVI

'Tis through Bohemia's land now Conrad wends,
That music-land, where oft the attracted ear
Is charmed by dulcet voice that aptly blends,
With artful instrument in concord dear;
Oft in the public thoroughfares you hear,
Touched on the sudden, strain of harp and horn,
With thrilling sweetness ringing loud and clear,
Wakening the answering echoes of the morn,
Far on her buoyant breeze of early freshness borne.

CVII

See ye yon venerable grey-haired sire
At the hill-side, with harp attuned, he stands
To greet the traveller with the throbbing wire,
Which well responds unto his withered hands,
Though running now must be life's latest sands;
His boy beside him waits, and well his part
Fulfils, with cheery horn!—proud martial bands
I oft have heard that less could touch the heart
Than that spontaneous strain that little owed to art.

269

CVIII

Like bard of old midst Wales' romantic hills,
That aged minstrel looked; white streamed his hair,
His eye a dreamy inspiration fills,
And breathes a solemn fervour in his air;
How stands he, leaning on his rude harp there,
Like one of those grey seers of old romance,
Who on high Cader Idris' summits fair
Had lingered long, till wild with passionate glance
Of visionary fire they shared the ecstatic trance.

CIX

Prague dawns with dawning day on Conrad's sight,
Night, as ashamed to shroud such scene—retires!—
Look on yon glorious prospect, proud and bright,—
Towers, turrets, cupolas, fanes, minarets, spires,
All glistening now in morn's red rising fires,
Thronged in assemblage gorgeous and supreme,
Burst on the sense—he stops, starts, hails, admires
Far Soldanrie's fair city, shown in dream
To spread before his sight doth now one moment seem!

CX

But for one moment, and the illusion's past,
Bohemia's capital, though proud and fair,
With that compared in sooth sinks far and fast;
Sophia's City still the palm shall bear,
She of the irradiate sky the empurpled air,
The effulgent waves, the domes of sun-blazed gold,
The groves of cypress, like soft clouds spread there,
O'er a bright heaven too dazzling to behold
But for their mellowing shades, that still in part enfold!

270

CXI

Sophia's seven-hilled City bears the palm,
She of the enchanted gardens of throned death,—
Of the odoriferous breezes, scattering balm,—
From myrtles, citrons, orange-trees, a wreath
Twined round her brows for ever!—whose rich breath
Hangs o'er her—she of the Isles of Laughing Light,
The Hills of pride! the old Sea meandereth
In lengthenings labyrinthine, blue and bright,
Through her sweet heart, as though, there charmed from billowy might!

CXII

Pass o'er the bridge, the pride of Prague, where stand
Statues and groupes of saints in stony rest,
With cross uplifted in each sculptured hand,
And blessed book to breathless bosom pressed;
Gaze on that spot whence legends old attest
The Martyred Man by Wenceslaus was thrown,
While flames miraculous did flickering crest
Those waves, that unextinguishably shone,
Till searched, the guilty stream did its dread secrets own!

CXIII

Where the archiepiscopalian palace stands,
Rears the old museum its enshrining walls,
There paintings, finished by long-mouldered hands,
With quaint display adorn the pictured halls,
The shade of centuries o'er their colouring falls,—
Seem some fair reliques of Sclavonian art,
And many a one that period rude recalls
When o'er the canvass figures seemed to start
By rule and compass squared, from nature far apart.

271

CXIV

Proud is the Hradschin's palaced mass, sublime,
The abode of fair Bohemia's ancient kings,
From whose high windows thrown in troublous time,
When discord wide outspread her darkening wings,
Slawata fell and Martinitz!—for wrings
Foul tyranny the o'ertortured soul at last—
The public soul to do abhorrent things,
And deal in desperate deeds that blight and blast,
Yet 'scaped each wretch with life, which such vile worms hold fast.

CXV

Behind the Altstadt's towers swells Ziska's hill.
Blind Hussite chief! for glorious acts renowned,
And deeds intrepid of triumphant skill:—
'Twas on that spot of marked and chosen ground
He gathered his brave hosts, well bulwarked round;
Thence fierce descending in his strength and power,
The imperial Sigismund attacked, and crowned
Himself with deathless fame,—in that stern hour
Was martyred Huss avenged, his murderers taught to cower.

CXVI

With hand gigantic grasping firmly close
The spiked mace, that countless deaths had dealt,
Fixed in the haughty calm of strength's repose
The pictured warrior see, whom none could melt
From dauntless purpose—firm as the iron belt
Bound round his mighty heart in battle's heat,
Full well the importance of his deeds he felt:—
'Tis the Premonstratensian convent's seat
Of holiness which shrines—that relique of the great.

272

CXVII

Rose the proud palace of great Wallenstein
In Prague's fair stately streets, within whose wall
Of old did more than regal splendours shine,
Adorned with luxury's choicest triumphs all:
Baronial vassals served him in his hall,
A crowd of pages of the noblest birth
Still watched his beck and waited at his call;
His place was mid the loftiest of the earth,—
But 'tis of those that loves, wild Fortune to make mirth!

CXVIII

Murdered, most basely murdered, did he sink;—
Generalissimo of armies, placed
For long, long years on glory's dizziest brink,
But to be mocked and ruined, and disgraced,
All memories of his services effaced,
All trophies of his greatness thrust aside,
Helpless in his sore need, but he embraced
His doom with dauntless and heroic pride,
And like a chief of hosts, leading the armed nations—died!

CXIX

How nobly yon superb cathedral stands;
Superb, though bearing marks of ravage dire,
When War waved wide his dread and deadly brands,
In vain did this in solemn state aspire,
The sacrilegious shots they dared to fire
By hundreds pierce the roof, the walls deface,
The glorious edifice, though not entire,
Still proudly stands triumphant in its place,
Though shaken then it seemed to totter to its base.

273

CXX

Gaze on the imperial mausoleum there,
By Rudolph raised, of pure and spotless white,
With effigies around it sculptured fair;—
Yet other monuments appear in sight,
Receiving on their groupes the faint-shown light;
Wlaschin's awhile the wandering eye arrests,
Built of Bohemian marble, sheen and bright:
Near it recumbent Ludomella rests,
Carved out in bronze, that well the sculptor's skill attests.

CXXI

But chief Saint John Nepomuk's tomb behold,
Kings' treasuries sure were drained to form that shrine!
Enriched with ornaments of worth untold,
Of pomp a marvel, and of wealth a mine;
What stores of solid silver there outshine,
Making a dazzling path of that proud aisle,
In chrystal coffin borne by forms divine
Of sculptured silver, midst that sumptuous pile
Sleeps the famed saint in peace, who suffered here awhile.

CXXII

In the last chapel doth Saint Wenzel rest,
Bohemia's patron saint,—and there displayed
His sword and armour greet the wond'ring guest,
Strange reliques for such sanctuary, where fade
All earthly dreams of power, where lies decayed
The slumbering corse—long withered as parched grass,
The painted walls shine gorgeously inlaid
With jasper, amethyst, and chrysophrasse,
The fields' fast waning flowers were meeter there—alas!

274

CXXIII

From Prague's resplendent oriental scene,
Flies Conrad now; his path to Töplitz leads,
Where alleyed gardens smile, all fresh and green,
And many a grove in vernal beauty spreads
Near princely Clary's palace—on he speeds,
And still intent on one uneasy hope
His lengthening route unwearyingly he treads,
Nor pauses he to think, nor deigns to droop—
On,—on, but give him air and breath, and power and scope!—

CXXIV

Fair is the Saxon Switzerland, and fair
Are Schreckenstein's old ruins on the peak
Of that wild rock that in the Elbe river there
Projects, and makes the waves, in eddying freak,
Form a slight rapid, where they foaming break
Around the jutting base; and fair art thou,
Tall Jungfernsprung!—that, tapering seem'st to take
A rocky obelisk's steep form—thy brow
Looks o'er a lovely scene, whose charms all eyes avow.

CXXV

But now in Dresden's galleries doth he bend
In homage to the triumphs of man's art,
Which surely best hath gained its noblest end,
If it can touch and wake and soothe the heart,
Then, then hath it absolved its loftiest part!—
And his was touched and wakened and inspired;
Emotions deep, to life seemed then to start,
With his full soul—o'erraptured he admired
Those glorious matchless works, with dreams ecstatic fired.

275

CXXVI

Raphael's Madonna di San Sisto there
Appears to us in glory—breathing light,
And smiling round her a celestial air!—
She smiles as though there could be no more night,
As sin and pain were sped in farthest flight,
And Brightness were become the Universe!
Our souls seem now suspended all in sight!—
Seraphic phantasies we, trembling, nurse,
When this world wins us back, 'twill wilder seem and worse.

CXXVII

Transcendent master—sovereign in thine art!
Heaven's rays converging on thy canvass seem;
What most celestial mysteries seem to start
Before us as we bend to thy crowned dream!
Yet bending, mount above the stars that gleam
Like faint illuminations near the light
That from those imaged eyes doth kindling stream,
Gathering to beams intolerably bright,
Yea, rapt from earth we mount, that more than solar height

CXXVIII

Madonna, on thy blessed arms reclined,
Smiles back thy smile the infant King of kings,
Content his heaven on thy deep heart to find,
Awhile, the Lord of all created things
Rests couched beneath the mother dove's sweet wings!
How doth the Almighty Child appear to share
Thy majesty of bliss, and taste the springs,
But of thy God-given joy, and deeply there
Bask in thy blessedness! He of all worlds the Heir!

276

CXXIX

Shuddering with adoration seem to bend
That Saint that Pontiff near! the o'erpowering rays
Of thy most Beatific Beauty blend
Too suddenly their souls with all that praise
And prayer, alone, before in solemn ways
Of worship had most faintly shadowed forth,
Breathless with that great rapture of amaze,
Feel they their former vows but nothing worth,
While in their hearts expires, the out-trodden Ember,—Earth!

CXXX

But thy beatitude goes brightening far,
Through our pierced souls—that scarce its weight can bear;
Each high tranced thought shines, sphered into a star!—
Oh! Queen of Glory! bright beyond compare
Thou spiritually lovely, heavenly fair,
Thou Beatifically Beautiful!—
For what wouldst thou our wondering minds prepare
In this consummate vision?—they can cull
No palms from thy sunned path,—their loveliest light shows dull!

CXXXI

Spare us thy splendour's too divine display;
Our conscious souls shrink from it as our eyes
From the noon sun's resistless blinding ray,—
As from The Throne the awed seraphs in the skies!
'Tis that thy pictured gaze in this pure guise
Undazzled seems to dwell where they glance not!
We feel thou art beholding that which lies
Beyond our powers to dream or reach!—and what!—
Dare we look through thy sight, bound, chained to the earth's dark lot?

277

CXXXII

How—glorified in thee—hath genius given
To this rare Vision, in its victory's pride,
The all-mystical Magnificence of Heaven,
The arch-triumphs with the Empyreal thrones allied,
The eternity's o'erpowering pomps descried,
In their mid-majesty of unveiled state!
Deep o'er our Souls sweeps glory's dazzling tide;
But yet they soar! mysteriously elate,
O'ershadowed by their God—soar—shine—more nobly great!

CXXXIII

Behold Corregio's Night!—than full-blown day
More beautiful—a most celestial scene;
Far o'er the horizon streaks of promise play
Faintly, but imaging, in glimpse serene,
The day-spring from on high!—Madonna's mien
There, too, though tenderer, is transcendent shown;
Oe'r her babe's beaming form how doth she lean,
As all the light o'er her sweet aspect thrown,
Was darkness to the ray that lit her Soul—love's own!

CXXXIV

'Tis said, proud triumph of victorious Art!
That here the kingly leaders of stern war
Paused on their path—to act the guardian's part.
Before her Light stood still red Battle's star;
The conquerors checked the wheeled pomp of their car;
While battered shrines and domes and shattered piles
Were as the ruined spoils of centuries are;
The Angel of Safety there shed peaceful smiles,
Far was the shock that dooms—the foul stain that defiles.

278

CXXXV

Leipzig! thy name sounds like a battle cry!
So famed wert thou, in the annals strange and stern,
Of that dark strife which like a storm went by,
Whose rains were blood, that streamed from Life's rent urn,
Whose lightnings, War's hot hissing shafts, that burn
With fiery agonies; how long, how long
Did earth those deep and ghastly lessons learn—
Misery, depopulation, strife, plague, wrong,
As she some blighted wreck frowned Heaven's fair worlds among.

CXXXVI

Behold the raging of the fight! Hark! hush!
That yell of agony was Life's last breath.
How hideous is the infuriate charge and rush,
All whelmed and weltering roll in one red death.
Earth! hast thou homes for all that sink beneath?
Yawn open! give them to their sheltering grave;
Black, poisonous exhalations shroud the heath.
Heaven!—Heaven!—and have those wretches souls to save,
That thus the mortal hour in mad defiance brave?

CXXXVII

Elster! thou rollest now a peaceful tide,
Forgetful of those fatal scenes and foul;
Fair smiles calm Leipzig city by thy side,
Whose streets then echoed loud the murderous howl
Of War's fierce wolves, that did unsated prowl,
Till gorged with havoc's spoils and deadliest ill;
Then their dread cries, like thunder's cloudy growl,
Died in the distance, and the air grew still,
For silent those they left—the breathless ones and chill!

279

CXXXVIII

In the Thuringerwald, that fair town stands,
The town of Eisenach, that boasts proud fame,
And interest deep, and earnest thought commands;
There Luther, strong to stand 'gainst wrong and shame
In Wartburg's castled courts remained—the flame
Of holy zeal, still lightening to full blaze,
For outrage cannot check, nor tyrants tame!
There—where oft thrilled the Minnesänger's lays—
Wrapt in his mighty work he passed his arduous days.

CXXXIX

Interpreter of Heaven! thou chosen one,
To whom entrusted was the task august,
The clouds to clear from Righteousness' veiled Sun,
And lift the world once more from its own dust!—
To fight the fight with meek, pure aim and just,—
Thou Michael of the Mind! high name, 'tis there
We venerate still what all must prize—may trust;
Devotion, faith, that had but one blest care—
Name—men are prompt and proud to celebrate and share.

CXL

Witness the Lutherans, and all those who tread
In those clear paths which thou with light hast lined,
Thou! that wert armed with mighty powers and dread;
Yea! second Michael! girt to scourge and grind—
Thou Michael of the Mind—and of Mankind!—
Methinks the Archangel entered in thy Soul,
And what thou well atchievedst, he designed;
So were thy foes o'erthrown, so well the whole
Of thy work prospered still, foul evil to controul!

280

CXLI

Most glorious work! proud task! wert thou not called
Even to redeem redemption from harsh wrong
And hideous stain?—to save from chains that thralled,—
From cankers that consumed the church!—which long
Groaned under specious tyrannies and strong?
Didst thou not right Religion, and upraise
From that dank slime, where couched She snakes among,
Which stung her fiercely in ten thousand ways?—
For this, oh Saint! for this, to thee be speechless praise.

CXLII

Foul superstitions fled before thy face,
And dark corruptions gendered here below,
The word and worship sorely to disgrace,
Were then compelled their loathsomeness to know;
How didst thou deal 'gainst these a crushing blow!
The inquisitorial terrors, fierce and wild,
Which scorched the very Soul with tortures slow—
The idolatries that prayer and praise defiled—
How did they quail, unmasked, before thy bidding mild!

CXLIII

Slow breaks the autumnal morning in the sky,
A sunless morn of clouds! all dim and dark.
Heaven opens not its ever-glorious eye—
Of that rich fire we trace no radiant spark;
Yet by degrees, by faint degrees we mark
The scene spread out before us—hill and plain
Grow visible—Day resteth, like the Ark,
Upon the mountain-tops; but still in vain
The eye seeks thee, thou Sun!—that hast commenced thy reign!

281

CXLIV

Waves of dark woods go billowing down the hills,
Sounding, still sounding to the autumnal blast;
The Soul with stormy joy it proudly fills,
To hear that swell of rolling sounds go past.
Howl on, thou clamorous Wind—blow, blow full fast;
Draw all the music from those leaves that hang
Yet on the bough, they shall but give, at last,
A hollow, rattling shiver, a faint clang,
Like that in Death's choaked throat, when wrings the mortal pang.

CXLV

Oh! awful time! deep Autumn! all the leaves
That flourished, fluttering 'gainst the blue, bright sky,
Seek the Great Grave!—the Earth!—which all receives,
And drift in gathered heaps, and mingling lie—
Yet making it a beauteous thing to die,
With their fine colourings, deepening more and more,
Ee'n dazzling in their clear depths to the eye,—
So sparkling shine the waves that seek the shore,
And break and melt away—their fleeting being o'er!

CXLVI

There is a change upon the scene; where late
Smiled sunshine, frowns around the heaviest gloom,
(Which yet I would not here and now abate,)
Of this drear season!—darkening to a tomb
The Earth seems—and she embraces her stern doom
Unmurmuringly—and but low winds complain
And moan and mourn above her withered bloom,
While she submits as calmly to the reign
Of dim decay, as erst to glory's without stain.

282

CXLVII

Teach us a lesson, then, dear Mother Earth!
Teach us, like thee, to shrink not from our fate,
But to be fixed, in sadness or in mirth,
To bear that doom which yet must have its date!
But for a time can this cold mortal state
Crush us and wrong! The Liberator comes;
He, the Avenger—the Armed One—soon or late—
The All but Almighty Monarch of the Tombs!—
He wrests from Sorrow's grasp the spirit she consumes!

CXLVIII

A solemn time!—a lone and mournful hour!
A night of clouds broods o'er the brow of day.
Is't this that hath strange influence and stern power,
Chasing all light and careless dreams away?
'Tis true that seasons have a mystic sway
O'er the deep Soul, that scenes and sounds and times
Will make the mind their secret will obey;
Many have found it thus in divers climes,
And various states and moods with which the great Soul chimes.

CXLIX

A solemn hour!—Queen Autumn's gathering gloom—
A gorgeous gloom hangs o'er the woods and fields,
And all is deeply breathing of the tomb;
And here were battered helms and shivered shields,
And every weapon that the warrior wields,
Mixed in a dire confusion—and yet more—
(Fierce War his mountain-throne of ashes builds!—
The clay of those proud warriors, that there bore
Their haughty part so well!—their lives—their deaths are o'er.

283

CL

Behold the spot where, some short years ago,
War, with his awful terrors and his powers,
His attributes of dread and shapes of woe,
Ruled like the hurricane through desperate hours,
When Empire changed her Masters, while the showers
Of hissing death-shot fell like bounding rain,
And mightiest chieftains sank as shaken towers
By earthquakes ruined! thou, immortal plain,
The blood of many lands, 'twas thine, ev'n thine to drain!

CLI

Yes! Waterloo! the crimsoning floods of gore
That fed thy fattened soil, those torrent-rains,
That o'er thine earth in one red rush did pour,
Reeking to heav'n, flowed not from native veins—
From Caledonia's mountains—Albion's plains,
Green Erin's isles and France' sweet vineyard-vales,
Those purpling streams with their unbleaching stains
Poured—to one sea immingling—Memory hails,
Trembling, that dreadful scene,—and triumphing bewails.

CLII

I tread the Plain—the famed—the glorious Plain,
Where fought the gathered nations long and well.
One thought comes o'er me like a throb of pain—
'Twas here my Mother's gallant Brother fell
In glory's lap—with thunders for his knell;
The battle-thunders—and their sulphurous smoke
For his dim pall—here, pondering, would I dwell
Awhile, and dream of all that whilom shook
The world with wonder—then,—as some frail bubble broke.

284

CLIII

The gallant Brother of my Mother fell
On this stern spot; his requiem was the roll
Of stormy drums, the deafening trumpet's swell—
Nor tears, nor prayers might soothe the parting soul—
At once 'twas wasted as the upwithered scroll;
At once strong Death leapt, boastful, on his prey,
And that at once confessed his dread controul!—
But we do hope thy feet were in the way
Which leadeth to Heaven's light,—the realms of fadeless day.

CLIV

I will not sigh for thee—I will not sigh—
Nor seek a strain of vain lament to weave:
I will but say, “Be blessed those who die,
That thousands may thy blessings, Peace! receive!”—
I will not sigh for thee—but will believe
That it was best for thee to flee away
In thy youth's summer, nor to learn to grieve,
Nor to consent to suffer, day by day,
Seeing, as all must see, Life's treasured hopes decay.

CLV

At once thy soul shot past all the hollow years
Of Time and entered in the Eternity;
Wherefore were heart-breakings and groans and tears!—
Ah! on this earth 'tis the survivors die;
They battle with the mortal agony,
Longer than those who brunt it and depart.
But why, ye Mourners for the Dead!—but why
Will you still deem the bitter tear should start
For those who calmly sleep, in peace of Soul and Heart?

285

CLVI

Where are the thousands that, on that great day,
Bit the red dust, all blushing with their blood?
And where the thousands that have since a prey
Fallen to the unconquered foe, by none withstood.
The hurricane may thin the leafy wood,
But leaves, then spared, shall not forget to fall,
And with a slower withering!—Is it good
To live and to survive our life's life, all—
To see loves, friendships, hopes expire without recall?

CLVII

Before that foe we all must fall at last,
Howe'er awhile we may escape the blow,
Stem the fierce surge, or brave the sweeping blast—
Some stern attraction draws us still below!
A thousand deaths we may escape, and so
A thousand die! for round us fall, undone,
The loved—the adored!—Oh! worst of wildest woe;
Far bitterer deaths we die, ere comes the One
To set us free at length, and that we may not shun!

CLVIII

War! War, we need not mourn thee for thy slain,
Thy sacrificed, the victims of thy rage;
They shall not know the pang or tear again:—
'Tis the bereaved who, with themselves, must wage
A war for ever, tortured for an age,
Cut off from their best hopes and blessings all,
Wrung with sharp throes, that nothing shall assuage,
That claim our pity; 'tis for them must fall
The tear and breathe the sigh—their cup is brimm'd with gall!

286

CLIX

Oh! War, thy Saturnalia of despair,
Thy Hecatombs, of human victims piled;
Thy fulmined pæans, deafening earth and air;
Thy phrenzied orgies, all with blood defiled;
The smouldering cities and fair shrines despoiled,
Afflict the sense and shock us and o'erpower;—
But from thy stormy pageants, fierce and wild,
We turn to sorrow, in a softer hour,
O'er the orphaned—the bereaved—with ashes for their dower!—

CLX

In their hearts' deepest cores the seeds are sown
Of fruitful grief—ye deem they perish there;—
They deem so too!—but like those thickly strown
In the under earth—they perish to prepare
A wilderness of teeming growths—these wear
A fatal hue—but meet for funeral wreath,
A deadly bloom!—cold blossoms of despair—
The heart's black harvest!—while corrupting death,
Mouldering in its quick soil, fills that veiled world beneath!

CLXI

Therefore we mourn o'er Victory's haughty day,
And round the trophied arch triumphal, bend
The cypress-branch, and strew the laurelled way
With willow-leaves of widowed woes, and blend,
With wild shouts, jubilant, that rock and rend
The earth and air, the sorrowing sighs of dole.
Sweet Peace, herself, proves powerless to befriend
The oppressed blood-weeping heart, the o'erwearied soul,
For which the heavy hours on wheels of torture roll!

287

CLXII

But upon earth are holy wars and high,
Holy and high and honourable wars—
Whose reeking breath is incense to the sky
Whose blaze—the illumination of the stars!—
Those that are fought to burst the bolts and bars
Of black Oppression—and to raise mankind!
Proudly may such brave warriors wear their scars!—
Victory's wrought panoplies of pomp, though lined
With empire's purple—men, should less imposing find!

CLXIII

Circassians! such the immortal strife that now
Rocks your Caucasian barriers to their base,
And such the glory circling round each brow—
Now steel'd and helmed War's horrent front to face—
Nobly ye thus your matchless part embrace;
Nobly ye stake your all on one deep throw—
Hereditary Heroes!—Valorous race!
From sires to sons the imperial spirits go,—
The electric living chain—these lengthening weave below!

CLXIV

Bold Champions of the Nations! ye, between
Mankind and Tyranny, have ta'en your stand!—
Alas! your homes' depopulated scene—
Alas! the desolation of the land!—
But Freedom's self hath nerved each red right hand;
And ye can not submit, nor stoop to bear
The yoke and chain of barbarous rude comm an!—
How the ingrate nations coldly leave ye there,
To bleed—themselves to save, from what should be—despair!

288

CLXV

Catch ye the barbed, forked lightnings in your hands,
Which the Great Tyranny still launcheth?—Yea!
Ye bring their scorching deaths on your brave bands—
Stir up the Storms that yet shall clear the day,
And show the Sun to others!—Who are they
That blame ye?—Slaves and slave-drivers, but taught
To mutter forth their blasphemies, and say
What they should blush to take unto their thought,
Were they of nobler clay—and that with spirit fraught.

CLXVI

Aye, what, in sooth, shame-stricken, they should blush,
Unto their bosomed thoughts, e'en to admit!—
Were they of loftier mould—but they do crush
Their own hearts out, and in their phrenzy fit
Rave but of things that stand against them writ
For evermore!—Thou groaning ghastly Earth!—
Ye Men!—content with grovelling souls to sit—
Ground down into its dust!—how fallen from worth!—
Where Slavery's hoof hath stamp'd—there spreads but heaviest dearth!

CLXVII

But to those glorious Warriors turn again,
Who would be greatest of the great—the Free!
Yea! they would break their own and others' chain,
And snatch the fruits of Freedom's Sovereign Tree.
Their sharpened, lengthening lances seem to be
Lightning-conductors, on themselves to draw
The withering wrath of murderous tyranny!—
Away from all the rest!—high towering saw
Their Hills those lances raised—and watched with breathless awe.

289

CLXVIII

Those hills, that nursed the Heroic and the Brave!—
They watched and watch that solemn strife august,
Though the earth yawned beneath ye to one grave,
Tho' that were paved with your dead brethren's dust,
Ye should not cease to strive, nor fail to trust,
Ye Freemen of the Soul!—at least from chains,
Delivery cometh with the mortal thrust!
The eternal bright escape from all that pains
The great and generous mind, which bonds and bounds disdains!

CLXIX

Therefore still make, as ye before have made,
Your high uplifted lances, sharp and bright,
Lightning-conductors, which those fires that played
Before, o'er earth's riven heart, to scorch and blight
And pierce and scathe, shall strike with deadliest might,
And spare the rest till storm and strife be past!—
While on these spears' keen points too streams Heaven's light,
In contrast blest with those wild flames that waste!—
So ye in peace shall sleep—the world be saved at last.

CLXX

Must ye, right gallant Champions! smothered lie
In the huge serpent's slime, and in his last
Convulsions fierce, fall crushed, and sink and die,
Leaving a name unequalled in the past,
By Greek or Roman patriot!—those that cast
In mould heroic were—but Ye are more,
Warrior-philanthropists!—your war's wild blast
And bannered terrors—yet prove holy; for
'Tis that the Only Peace may reign from shore to shore!

290

CLXXI

The Peace of Liberty—unchecked, unchanged,
The Peace of perfect Freedom!—pure and deep—
Therefore are ye from homes' dear loves estranged,
Fierce charge to make,—and vigil stern to keep—
Fame's fields to sow, and wounds and deaths to reap—
Therefore have ye, groaned, writhed and bowed and bled,
And dared in danger's gulphs profound to leap—
All things enduring—direst and most dread—
That Peace, the Only Peace, from shore to shore may spread.

CLXXII

Freedom! thy Peace and Heaven's! Circassians! yet
Shall ye not smite the monster through his scales?
Shall ye not pay him back your long, long debt?
For sheathed are ye in panoply that mails
'Gainst the worst sting that threatens and assails,
And armed are ye with weapons that assault
The conscience of your foe!—whose courage fails,
When shadowed forth frowns dark the enormous fault,
The giant wrong, that yet makes shuddering legions halt.

CLXXIII

So may the matchless daughters of your clime
Hail their high-hearted Heroes of the Hills,
Their Hunters of the Hated Foe, sublime—
Whose tale of glory all their bosom thrills,
When Heaven, at last, their proud desire fulfills;
When that strong mountain-chivalry hath crushed
The invaders and the oppressors,—when brave wills
And dauntless aspirations, victory-flushed,
At length may reap success—and War's mad storm sinks hushed!

291

CLXXIV

Eagles! that seek and track your unseen sun
Through night of dark oppression and its gloom!
Your pride of place, that have through darkness won!—
That soar aloft, despite the weight of doom
That clogs your wings!—that make around ye room—
That drive the shades before ye!—far your flights—
And proud your paths!—if earth must prove your tomb
Heaven seems—ye kingly Eagles of the Heights!—
To be your aeyrie, while, ye strive for Freedom's rights!

CLXXV

Those Princely Warriors still of victory dream;
They hurl themselves against the hated foe,
As they might hurl their native rocks, and seem
Careering, like the tempest's blasts, to go!
Covering as with their mountains,—crushing low
The enemy's dense ranks!—full oft o'erthrown,
And cowering under their dread shadow so!—
Hope ye—ye Muscovites!—to hew them down,
Think on their proud, high hearts—and then turn to your own!—

CLXXVI

Their fastnesses are in their feelings, know!
Their bulwarks are their bosoms, tried and true.
How should they fail?—their beacon is the glow
In those brave hearts, that warms them thro' and thro';
Their banners wave in all the clouds that strew
The Old Caucasus with beauty!—for they speak
Of Freedom, taking shapes for ever new—
Now wreathing round the lonely-soaring peak,
Now fluttering far away, till lost in vapoury streak.

292

CLXXVII

How should they fail? and yet—and yet—I fear!—
For the foe's name is Legion!—Thickening swarms,
Armed hosts in nations threateningly appear,
Till the Everlasting Hills war's wild alarms—
Echo in hollow thunder!—while of arms
The incessant gleam, the intolerable blaze—
(A baleful light—prophetic of dire harms!—)
Makes their base brighter than their crests, where rays
Of rosy morning glow, and splendours pain the gaze!

CLXXVIII

In time ye must be free! yet much, I fear,
First must a generation swept away—
A waste of graves in desolation drear—
Prove to your tyrants more e'en than the array
Of marshalled bravery, which ye now display;
That 'tis in vain 'gainst One Great Soul to strive,
One Will, One Heart, One Hope!—for no decay
Can these o'ertake, while yet is left alive—
One scion of your race—a freeman's blow to give.

CLXXIX

Murder on murder they may foully heap,
Till from your mountains the red torrents pour,
Even as the flashing streams that seek the deep;
But these shall form a Sea without a Shore!
A deluge of destruction covering o'er
Thy phalanxed hosts, dread Pharaoh of the North!
Whose stubborn heart is hardened to the core,—
Who cannot own the high and matchless worth
Of those who in such cause their hallowed swords draw forth!

293

CLXXX

True Ramparts of the Nations! should you fall,
Your very name should be their spear and shield!
For ye have pierced through the dark, mouldering wall
Of the ancient tyranny, and shall not yield,
Not even in death!—why ye have gained the field,
Why ye are free—in death or life are free;
Heaven hath your charter ratified and sealed,
Full in your soul reigns boundless liberty!
'Tis not for fame nor name your powers embattailed be!

CLXXXI

For Freedom and your Faith! your homes and shrines,
The air you breathe!—the very ground you tread!—
All that with all Life's deepest life entwines—
For these your arms are raised, your blood is shed.
Wrestlers with the Earth's huge Giant! who hath bled
In your embrace of iron—you protect
That earth from his abhorred encroachments dread,
While, with diversion strong, ye thus have checked!
When shall the example—when—the all slumbering states infect?

CLXXXII

Wake!—wake!—ye Nations!—help that noblest One!
Those martyrs—patriots—champions of the cause!
Their march is to the goal, as yet unwon.
There seems no room to yield—no time to pause.—
These are no lawless combatants!—Heaven's laws
Do link ye Liberators!—Strike, and strike
For your own sakes and all earth's sake!—because
Ye are the marked avengers,—rouse up, like
The lion from his lair, down trampling stake and spike.

294

CLXXXIII

Ye may not wrench your bars asunder, but
The dungeons of the great oppression ye
Shall shake to their foundations, though still shut,
On ye, at length, at length, when ye shall be
Ashes—wide-opening unto liberty,—
Rending, in ruin,—shattered, tottering, crushed,
Crumbling to dust, shall Earth and the Empires see
How worthily ye worked, how on ye rushed,
With vigour aye renewed, with loftiest ardours flushed.

CLXXXIV

Nemesis of the Nations!—glorious Land!
Singly the princely combatants oft go—
Each arm an army, and each red right-hand
A host to o'erwhelm the feebler, fainter foe;
Feebler—though still—alas! that it is so!—
Gathered and multiplied too fatally,
Presenting still a vast, appalling show;
But myriads shall appal not—daunt not Ye—
Proud Chivalry of Kings!—the fearless and the free!

CLXXXV

A Chivalry of Kings!—your threatening swords
Are as ten thousand sceptres stretching wide,
A nation armed of Leaders and of Lords!—
A Commonwealth of Chiefs!—in full-plumed pride,
Lo! each and all in haughty triumph ride,
Crested commanders, mustering their own war;
They need no head, no ruler, and no guide,
Save their soul's impulse and their hope's bright star,
A princely people these, whose fame shall yet sound far!

295

CLXXXVI

The seeds they sow—thus bravely, nobly sow,
In other lands shall give their promise forth;
In other lands shall spring and richly grow,
And scattered, spread o'er all the groaning earth,
So gloomy now in dreariment of dearth.
Be strong, then! oh! Deliverers, let your Hills
Shake with the thunderings of your battle-mirth,—
The booming Waves of War, whose clamouring fills
The deafened air with sounds, to which each heart-chord thrills!

CLXXXVII

Warriors!—ye living Thunderbolts of God,
Can ye but strike the foe, then, in your fall?
Proud are the paths ye tread, and long have trod,
Devoted—staunch and nobly zealous all;
Ye stoop to rise for ever! from your thrall
Escaping, and with many a dazzling deed
Making Defeat one Victory!—ye do call
Aloud to all your brethren, while ye bleed—
Woe!—woe! to them, to us—that fail you at your need.

CLXXXVIII

But must ye sink! must ye, in truth, then show,
Like to Heaven's living thunderbolts of wrath?—
That can but strike in your own fall—the foe—
That dash yourselves to doom, to give him death!—
Warriors!—if you must sink—your ruin hath
A glory ruin never gained before,
E'en from that moment; and your funeral path
Shall shine with sunlike splendours brightening o'er—
The Twilight of all Time to gild for evermore.

296

CLXXXIX

What shall become your loftiest monument,
The Liberty of all the Nations!—Live
Circassians!—live to hail that high event,
Which yet shall surely in due course arrive!
Live in your children's spirits! strike and strive
Still in your children's frames—if need must be.
Not so!—'tis ye the immortal gift that give;
Ye shall yourselves atchieve that liberty,
If power there be in man—and Heaven yet sides with ye!

CXC

Yes! Sons of Fame! whose breasts true honour fills;
Yes! ye armed arbiters of Nature's Cause!
Hereditary Heroes of the Hills—
Whose wondrous work astounds and all o'erawes,
Your holy fire, that frozen ocean thaws,
Which spreads from pole to pole, all the earth to pall
In one black gloom, chained, checked by tyrannous laws.
Hath this yet thawed it?—Oh! it should, it shall
Like summer's scorching suns those hallowed rays shall fall.

CXCI

How peaceful now seems all in Antwerp's streets,
And Antwerp's ancient citadel, where roared
The voice of battle, which one word repeats:
“Death!—Death!”—now rusts in sheath the unbrandished sword,
And rests the mangled soldier—the undeplored,
Calmly in his stained shroud—on that same spot,
Where his brave bosom by the blow was gored.
What meant that savage fray, so fierce and hot,
As the world's doom hung all on its success, or not?

297

CXCII

I lingered in the unechoing citadel;
No more is heard the clang there and the shout;
No longer falls thereon the deathful shell;
But all is quietude within—without—
Deep contrast to the savage din and rout
Of battling armies, wreaking the fierce will
Of those that should for long pause—weigh—and doubt,
Ere they consign their fellows to War's ill,
And license men to strike, to smite and stab and kill!

CXCIII

Fair Ghent and famous!—famous from all time
Unto all time, if aught be stable here;
And history have indeed a date sublime.
Methinks thou lookest but sombre now and drear,
Too much of the old Past's stamp doth still appear!—
Where are thy strong ones, and thy famed of old?
Ask of the sod, the gravestone, and the bier.
Themselves are dumb and still and stark and cold;
Their deeds are done and gone, and their life's tale is told.

CXCIV

Fair City! how the memory of that past
Clings round thee like a mantle to enshroud,
And long shall changeless and triumphant last;
Though solemn—dear, though melancholy—proud,
It clasps thee as it were a golden cloud.
How swiftly flew those fair times o'er thy head,
To leave thee to a lonely doom thus bowed—
As through thy stately streets we musing tread,
How we re-conjure up thy Past and Lost and Dead!

298

CXCV

How flourished the Van Artaveldts erst here!
Great chiefs and leaders in the prosperous town,
Prouder than crested paladin and peer,
Kingly in all things save the stole and crown,
Who ruled the haughty burghers with their frown,
And through all Flanders spread their mighty sway,
With zealous partizans their high renown
Prompt to uphold, through many a stormy day,
When fiery discord ruled, and shed abroad dismay.

CXCVI

What furious factions! what wild, civic broils
Full oft disturbed the Flemish state of old!
How were the people caught in tumult's toils,
The turbulent, the reckless, and the bold—
How oft did Peace her soothing smiles withhold—
What savage feuds—what frays of desperate heat
Troubled the land, while banners, wide unrolled,
Blazoned Commotion's reign with splendours meet,
And the fair soil was ploughed by many-trampling feet.

CXCVII

Adieu to Belgium's busy ways and fields
Of fair fertility, which oft have seen
The deadly weapon that the warrior wields,
Reddened with blood and notched with blows, I ween.
Now all seems tranquil, smiling and serene,
And peace and promise bless the laughing land,
Better than wars and rapine! and ye lean,
'Tis said, good Belgians, now to trades more bland,
Nor love much to bear part in strifes where waves death's brand.

299

CXCVIII

But now had Conrad passed those smooth, straight ways,
Where sooth to speak, reigns dull monotony;
There no old mighty mountains glorying raise
Their sun-adoring foreheads to the sky,
Impatient of the morning, proud and high!—
Nor varied show of Nature's wonderous pride
O'erpowers the sense, surprises the eager eye,
Sweeping in ever-varying prospect wide,
A regal feast for thought—luxuriously supplied.

CXCIX

How had he passed those tedious-lengthening plains,
That weary make the restless traveller's way?
Ah! not the present his quick thought enchains;
He turns from actual objects to survey
Throughout the long, but dream-illumined day,
Fantastic scenery brightening on his view,
Or Nature's savage pomp—or fair array,
Or wild diversities for ever new;
So did his dreaming soul a various path pursue!

CC

Yea! still the Visionary's haunted mind,
Compelled with fervent and creative might;
Far scenes and splendid, with strange skill combined,
To rise before it, clad in hues of light;
His wakeful thought, still sped in flashing flight,
Still shot in freedom, as shoots by the blast,
A thousand scenes, the proud, the wild, the bright,
Smiled to his soul!—rose,—reigned,—and vanished fast,
Like pageantries of pride they swept sublimely past!

300

CCI

Memory and Thought and Fancy were at work,
With all their royal mysteries and their powers;
(And barred from these, how drear, how cold, how murk
Were this frail, transitory world of ours;)
There, on the horizon gleam some city's towers,
Proud as Palmyra in its state of old;
Here, a luxuriant wilderness of bowers,
Speaks of Arcadia, ere its bright years rolled
Away, on rapid wings,—its radiant age of gold.

CCII

And now from Memory's glowing depths he calls
Scenes he had raptured hailed not long ago;
O'er these a spirit-light resplendent falls,
A flush of Inspiration's magic glow,
Which more than sunshine doth around them throw;
They start, they crowd his earnest gaze before,
Perchance, more proud in Memory's world they grow,
Crowned with the stately triumphs once they wore,
The glory and the pomp that lighted them of yore.

CCIII

With these rise others still—ne'er viewed by him
But by association's links allied
With these, that in superb confusion swim
Before his sense, one deep o'erwhelming tide—
Of beauty and of glory—stained and dyed
With kindling phantasies, which pour down there
Strong radiance, that the noon-sun in his pride,
Though all his rays were flushed to rainbows rare,
Could never meet nor match—bright, bright beyond compare.

301

CCIV

Hail, mighty columns! sparkling 'gainst the sky,
Of snowy marble—thus ye stainless shone,
When Greece was Freedom—Empire—Victory—
Hail! columns of the immortal Parthenon,
And thou, Ilissus—making thy sweet moan—
Hark! what deep accents throb along the breeze;
Tremble these temples, through each conscious stone,
To the live thunder of Demosthenes—
His eloquence hath laid the listening, lingering seas.

CCV

Laid them and lashed them to the silenced shore!—
But other waves, more turbulent and rude,
Obeyed his will and chafed and toss'd no more;
Men's minds and thoughts, that jar in ceaseless feud,
Owned the strong spell, and in subservient mood,
Marshalled and moulded seemed at his command;
Around the rostrum breathless thousands stood,
Swayed by each fine stroke of the enchanter's wand,
And there for evermore would tranced and trammelled stand!

CCVI

Shine Salamis!—outshine the unclouded sun!—
Place of all victory!—what a wonderous show!
Ten hundred thousand spears blaze into one!
The great sea groans, o'erburthened now below,
That armament of many fleets! for so
Yon multitudinous crowd of ships appears!
Nations and navies gathering, seem to grow
And multiply on the aching sight—where rears
A king his throne of gold—whose sun shall set in tears!

302

CCVII

Mægara, hail! Egina! art thou there?—
Where smiles fair Corinth, lovely Isthmus Queen?
For she hath not forgotten to be fair—
Nor put aside her proud, commanding mien—
Sunium! display thy crowned and steepy scene,
Where clustering columns, glittering, meet the morn,
Which downward, to o'ergild them seems to lean,
Eager their sparkling summits to adorn!—
Not of one blinding ray of matchless splendours shorn.

CCVIII

Now these are in one moment swept away,
And restless Fancy takes a wilder flight—
Speeding on pinions, that unwearied play,
With conquering zeal and with victorious might.
Now doth he dream he treads where, dazzling bright,
The noon-day sun sets all the skies on flame,
Fast shedding down, from his refulgent height,
Beams that no clouds, no mists of softness tame,
Till fevered and o'erworn becomes the languid frame.

CCIX

Wrapt in these dreams, then doth he pine to see
The mighty Andes and the Amazon—
The Wonderful of Waters!—or to be
Spurring along the Pampas plains—on—on—
While scorching as some subterraneous sun
Fired the entrails of the earth, the glowing soil
Withered his horse's hoofs—and keenly one
More fiercely broiled his brows—oh! happy toil,
Better than stagnant rest, when thus the veins o'erboil.

303

CCX

And now he climbs Peruvia's arrowy peaks,
And conjures round him from their ancient graves,
The stately forms of warriors and Caciques—
With towering plumes, like foam on white curled waves,
Swift at his bidding now the Tempest raves
O'er the Andes' torrents—while he treads on high
The unsteadfast wild-cane bridge, that quivering braves;
Yet those mad storms, that sweep from the angry sky,
Though frail as fairy-arch it seems to the awe-struck eye!

CCXI

Now o'er the broad-stretched Llanos doth he pass,
Blessing the Southern Cross upon his way,
Set in fair heavens of purple fire and glass,
That seem but made to smile round that rich ray—
Then dreams he that around him voices say,
“The Cross begins to bend and Midnight's past!”
Anon a golden flood of dazzling day,
Gives earth to glory all, and kindles fast
The broad savannahs, till on fire seems all the waste.

CCXII

Now on the Old Indian shore he wanders free,
Beneath those feathery cocoas light, that there
Lift their crowned heads of beauty gracefully,
And with the palm-trees, mighty growths and fair,
Soften the keen, intolerable glare,
And round, the stillness of their shadows throw;
While strange, bright, gorgeous birds, all rich and rare,
Pass, like winged rainbows, ever to and fro,
And flush the shades to fire—or gild the sunlight's glow!

304

CCXIII

Through the thick pillared vaults the arched columned aisles
Of the huge wonderous banyan, now he moves;
The orb of day there sheds far fainter smiles;
So dense, so deep those closely sheltering groves,
Thro' which the fluttering breeze light, murmuring roves,
All architecturally piled and placed
Seemed those fair stems and shafts, where still he loves
To lean, till day's hot fires are downward chased:—
Such visions charm his Soul in tenderest thrall embraced.

CCXIV

Anon, where soar, like mountains to the sky,
(Mountains upraised by man's triumphant hand!)
The Egyptian Pyramids before the eye,
Doth he oppressed with admiration stand!
They, the bold Alps and Andes of that land,
Point to the stars, and leave the world behind.
Where they, indeed, by mortals wrought and planned?
Praise be to Heaven for Man's victorious Mind!
For wonder-working Powers are in its depths enshrined!

CCXV

Thebes! put thy glory on thee yet again;
Rise in thy hundred-gated pomp of old;
Rise from thy wreck and ruin; rise and reign!
In mighty dreams shall he thy state behold,
Whose travelled thought, the impetuous and the bold,
Now traverseth all seas and lands to view
Scenes of all countries and all climes unrolled
Before its ken, to wild ambition true,
And evermore creates scenes vivid—various—new.

305

CCXVI

Balbec!—now banish far your loathsome broods
Of battening scorpions and all noxious things,
Engendered by the slime of ebbing floods,
Where dried are Glory's founts and Greatness' springs!—
For to thy desert places gladdening brings
Imagination her great gifts of power;
O'er these she spreads her fair outshining wings,
Ev'n in this crowning and refulgent hour,
Stand up then!—dome by dome, and glittering tower by tower!

CCXVII

Syria! now turns he to thy palmy plains;
Turns with a transport chastened and subdued.
Oh! Palestine, thy hallowed soil enchains!
In thought he treads each solemn solitude,
Hails the clear flood, or seeks the cedar-wood;
And on the tide of ages borne away,
Indulges long the pensive, pond'ring mood.
How sacred there seems each illumined way!
How rife with memories deep—of many a bye-gone day!

CCXVIII

No breath of air but seems instinct with Soul,
No grain of sand but speaks with magic tongue;
Here, on the breeze, the inspired accents stole—
The echo with the sounds of promise rung—
The watchful sense on tones of sweetness hung,
That thrilled the spirit to its deepest deep;
While to those precious words of power it clung,
The heavenly pearls of perfect truth to reap,
From that bright stream of words, that seemed in light to sweep.

306

CCXIX

And then these scenes, all faded from his fast,
And other visions wandered through his brain;
Those wonderous pageants rolled like cloud-wreaths past,
And left his soul to weariness and pain,—
The fit—the fatal fit now comes again;
Vainly he struggles, hopelessly must strive,
He writhes and gnashes in the Gordianed chain,
Whose worse than serpent-folds throb all alive,
While every galling link a venomed sting doth give.

CCXX

What tortures grind his heart's core in his pangs,
What keenest throes distract him, he is crushed
In suffering's fiercest and most fatal fangs:—
When shall those pangs be soothed, those pains be hushed?
Thoughts on his mind in throngs tumultuous rushed,
Sweeping like whirlwinds o'er the Watery World,
Through his torn troubled soul, stained, fevered, flushed,
His brow, like some rent scroll in furrows furled,
Proclaimed, indeed, that peace was from his spirit hurled.

CCXXI

Hark! how he muttereth in his restless mood,
Through his clenched teeth, with wild abstracted air!
What strange distemperature inflames his blood!
What life-consuming and corroding care!
Passion's worst poisons prove his daily fare,
Distraction seems his element, his woe
No kindred bosoms sympathizing share;
Thus more and more doth it for ever grow,—
His thoughts to Sorrow tend as streams to the Ocean flow.

307

CCXXII

Could he unbosom that most great distress
That ever doth within him brooding dwell,
Or but some portion of his pain express,
E'en from that moment it with him were well;
But the least slenderest portion's truth to tell
Should ask more eloquence than Earth can boast:
That fiery spirit which no strength could quell,
On waves of agony all wildly tossed,
Was in a thousand ways racked, wrecked, and wrung, and lost.

CCXXIII

Tempestuously those whirlwind-thoughts swept past,
In the wild fury of their strong career,
Even as the frail leaf driven before the blast,—
The sand before the Simoom's paths of fear,—
His very life and being did appear!—
His Soul shook, rocked to her foundations then;
For ill might she the torturing tumult bear;
And still those dark thoughts rose and sank again,
Thus heaving through his mind not bared to mortal ken.

CCXXIV

And yet not always thus! at times they grew
Heavy and languid as themselves, o'erworn
With their own battling restlessness, and threw
A deadly quiet round; all lone and lorn,
Then sank the spirit downwards, downwards borne,
As in a gulph of overwhelming gloom;
Better be by the lashing tempests torn,
Than in the breast's own cell to find a tomb:—
Thus varying ever passed his thoughts of dole and doom.

308

CCXXV

“Enough! the blow is given:—heart! learn to bear;
Grief is but grief or more or less severe,
And thou art well inured to pangs of care,
And all life hath of desolate and drear;
True, thou must now resign hopes, thoughts, most dear
Of thine own inmost feeling, must resign
The sweetest dreams that e'er did truth appear,
Not even a Dream of gladness must be mine:—
'Tis well—so be it still! heart!—faint not nor repine!—

CCXXVI

What is my Soul? a very world of death—
There spectres ever stalk, a pallid throng,
Without or bloom, or life, or light, or breath,
O! what a deadly realm!—there shoot along!—
Horrible phantoms yet more dread, more strong
Than marshalled armies mailed with wonderous power,
Gifted with murderous strength to blight and wrong!
How doth the conqueror of the crushed world shower
His ice-bolts in my soul—hour after mortal hour!

CCXXVII

Hope, thou'rt the eye of thought, without thine aid,
The future we can see not, save one mass
Of shadows, making the sick heart afraid;
Yet such thy prospects grow, too oft, alas!
And treacherous proves thy bright and polished glass,
Set in the soul—oh, Hope! I found thee vain
As e'en regret can be—and that which was
And is not, seems not emptier to the brain
Than that which hath not risen, and ne'er may rise to reign!

309

CCXXVIII

The mortal blow is to the immortal part,
Death in the life's life! and the eternal wreck
Is of the eternal soul and passionate heart,
There is no pause to grief—no change, no check
In mine horizon smiles no glimmering speck
To tell of morning—all is storm and night.
Harsh Fortune, must I bend me at thy beck?
Must I confess with grovelling soul thy might?
Ah me! what can they do whom blighted love must blight?

CCXXIX

Nor blighted love alone—were it but this,
Methinks that I could man and mail my mind,
Consenting to resign all dreams of bliss,
To leave all hopes, all joys, all life behind!—
But 'tis not this alone—these are resigned,
And more than all beside!—in vain, 'tis vain
To seek with words or thoughts my soul to bind;—
She in despair's o'ermastering power doth reign,
And I must yield to her, and that which rules her—Pain.

CCXXX

That which we call our Soul we little know,
Wider than space itself she strongly spreads,
It is the worlds within of thought that grow,
By which we measure her—but Lightning treads
Too slowly her waste realms to track, and sheds
A gleam too faint to light them,—the great Soul!
Is it that Chain of Thoughts which ever weds
Life's truth with the outward world's still varying whole?
No! 'tis the Place of Thoughts, from whence their streams unroll!

310

CCXXXI

We have a power and might all, all our own,
Which we too little reck of, for we lean
Too much upon this world, and this alone,
And glass back on our souls its troubled scene,
And let it press our own deep thoughts between,
Till our existence is not full—not one,
But made up of distracted parts—I ween
Our Souls might make their circuit round the Sun,
Worlds in themselves, unpropped, could they the infection shun!

CCXXXII

We wrong our own free Spirits, would we deign
But listen to their voice, while vain years dart
Away, nor hang on this World's feebler strain,
The “Holy! Holy! Holy!” of the Heart,
Should like a choir of Angels bid depart
All earth-born dreams, for thus it crieth still,
While Truth and Conscience their bright powers exert!—
But with these tones doth not creation thrill?
'Tis but the world of men, its part that acteth ill.

CCXXXIII

Still “Holy! Holy! Holy!” cry all things,
“Lord God Almighty!” chimeth in the Soul;
For she knows deeply whence the glory springs,
The harmony and beauty of the whole,
And feels the eternal and divine controul,—
Not to themselves made holy but to Him,
These worlds and elements that round us roll!—
To Him who rideth on the Cherubim,
Who bade them spring to birth, to whom Heaven's thrones are dim.

311

CCXXXIV

Peace!—“Holy! Holy! Holy!”—chaunts the whole
Of Nature—hymning from her deepest Heart;—
“Lord God of Sabaoth!”—chimes in the awe-struck Soul.
Since well she knows her high and happiest part!—
While thousand echoes, and ten thousand, start,
She gives the mightiest burthen of the song!—
Let joy through every pore and life-pulse dart!—
For the crowned knowledge of the truth is strong,
And silenced is the Voice of Venomed Serpent Wrong!

CCXXXV

How with this heavenliest consciousness to arm—
This Faith, bright Strengthener, with mysterious power,
How can my heart be bruised with mortal harm?
How can the present frown—the future lower?
E'en from this stern, this dark and dreary hour,
Let me arise and cast my weakness down;
Have I not found a shield, a fence, a tower?
So let the Future lower, the Present frown!
For I am armed to meet—elate and fearless grown.

CCXXXVI

Alas! my mind misgives me! much I fear—
I tremble still—my mind misgives me yet—
Something is doubtful, something treacherous here;
A hollow whispher doth forewarning threat;
Aye, our right hands their cunning may forget,
And our right arms their craft and skill and art,
But till it pays the heavy mortal debt,
Till life, and sense, and feeling shall depart,
Its cunning ne'er forgets the wily working Heart.

312

CCXXXVII

The Heart! the Heart! that holds on to the last;
Its desperate cunning it forgetteth not,
Till pulse and power and passion all are past,
That craft of cunning hath it ne'er forgot,
Whate'er the trials of its various lot,
Whate'er the outwearying sufferings that beset,
Howe'er the blackest clouds of doom may blot
Its drear horizon, in wedged masses met
The Heart—the Heart shall ne'er its cunning's strength forget.

CCXXXVIII

The insidious Heart—it sways us as it will—
It is a wonderous and a wizard thing;
It hath a startling and surpassing skill;—
Time may bear off its treasures on his wing,
Torture may seem to waste each gushing spring—
Despair to cloud it with his dark embrace,
And Agony its aching core to wring,
But still it worketh in its secret place,—
Still to the battle strong, and swift unto the race.

CCXXXIX

Yes! our right hands their cunning may forget,
And our right arms their skill and strength forego—
But, oh! the Heart!—the Heart!—that still is set
Unto the unfailing task and work below,
For mine!—how well, how mournfully I know—
How bitterly I feel and own at last
That it hath ever been, and shall be so!—
The future days shall find it like the past,—
The cunning of the Heart—no fetters can bind fast.

313

CCXL

The Storms are in my Soul! the shock of Seas—
The sweep of winds that howl their own wild dirge,
And sink through their own struggling—more than these
Are in that Soul—an ocean-scorning surge,
That hath nor shore, nor bound, nor margin-verge,
Scattering its spray beyond the stars that sink,
Sucked down its boiling eddies—while still urge
Their fierce delirious course, those gusts that shrink
From no o'ermastering power—though driven to ruin's brink!

CCXLI

The Seas—the Seas are in my Soul! they shock
All peace from thence—all dreamings of repose;
There chase they round, full many a fearful rock—
The Seas—the Seas are in my Soul—not those
That calm become at the outspent tempest's close;
The tempests and the rocking winds arise
From its own depths, and prisoned there but grows
The storm more deadly, while it vainly tries
To toss that sullen surge, and heave it to the skies!

CCXLII

Hope, Hope and Love! young daughters of Delight,
These oft make youth a very fairy scene,
As though there should be no more murky night,
To dash with gloom their lightsome path serene;
But when the sere leaf doth supplant the green,
And spreads a shadow o'er this Land of Life,
How melt these into memories!—while men lean
Back, still to gaze on them, till jealous Grief
Wins them to her alone, and ends the fruitless strife.

314

CCXLIII

Strike to the root, the root of Hope's fair tree;
In pity leave no offshoot, that may spring
After to life!—for her sweet treachery
I fear far more than Fate—false, fatal thing!—
Hope! with thine angel smile and angel wing!
Begone!—and ruined into heavy rest,
My dreamless heart may then forget the sting!—
Shattered and scathed, yet slumber in my breast,
Because no hope is left—no wish, no aim, no quest!

CCXLIV

It is too much! I frown thee from my fate
For ever, false, false Hope!—thou fairy-fiend!—
Come, black Despair, with thy disguiseless hate;
Come, cold Despondence, stern, and mournful-miened;
Would that to these I from the first had leaned:
Now they o'ertake me with redoubled might.
With diligence mine own dark fates I gleaned;
The o'erweening speculations strangely bright,—
The impassioned dreams I dreamed, have brought the heaviest blight.

CCXLV

It is a gloomy and oppressive hour—
Something unearthly seems to brood around—
Some evil influence now to boast strange power,
In mystic chains the elements hang bound—
The Soul feels with their leaden links fast-wound.
Such hour I love—it suits my darkened mood.
That soothing oft this solemn hush hath found,—
Oft joyed to feel such weight of stillness brood
O'er my hushed spirit's deep, and check my fevered blood.

315

CCXLVI

And yet such hours seem made for awful things;
'Tis as though Time himself paused on his path,
Fearful of what should follow, when his wings
Brought the dark moment of terrific wrath;
So seems this formed for deeds of doom and death;
And still the fancy taketh devious flight,
And will believe such deed of horror hath
On the hours that answered unto these aright,
Committed been by hands of stern and lawless Might.

CCXLVII

Sure 'twas on such an hour throned Cæsar fell;
Fell like an Empire!—sank as his own Rome
Should have declined, had she right nobly well
Girt her with dignity to brave her doom;
But she sank, tottering, trembling to the tomb:—
She died not the sublime—the glorious death;—
Corruption's curse was on her, to consume
First the high heart, and then to check the breath;
So was she bowed a weight of mortal gloom beneath.

CCXLVIII

Sure 'twas on such an hour great Socrates
Drank the drugged cup of death, and smiled and spake,
Ere his soul soared from earth-born hours, like these,
Her radiant way through shining worlds to take;
He spake such words as might immortal make
A Spirit that before were doomed to die!—
And as he spoke, what thoughts arose to shake
Those souls made conscious of the eternity!—
Like prisoned blasts their thoughts raged proud and strong and high.

316

CCXLIX

The Soul, indeed, is a mysterious thing,
Past her own understanding—utterly!
Soon as she agitates her mighty wing,
Quick thought!—on which she striveth still to fly,—
She leaves herself behind!—Lo! like the sky
She spreads round all!—Behold!—the Space, the Suns,
The Time;—the Eternity that fleets not by,
Live through her life—sublime the race she runs,
Even the angels' eye of light her full-blazed glory shuns!

CCL

My thoughts are tears, my very Soul is sighs,
Therefore I weep not, sigh not, it were vain;
The wound of which the wretch for certain dies,
Useless it were to probe, and give fresh pain;
I would not agitate the dreadful chain
That crushes out my life—but I submit;
I must not, dare not to myself complain—
The spell is wrought, the fearful doom is writ,
The seal is fixed!—my Soul! in dust and ashes sit.

CCLI

What is it to be Nothing?—it were well!
For still to be is agony and strife!—
What is't to feel that we are Nothing?—Hell!—
For all is mystery in this mingled life
Of wildly-clashing contradictions rife,
To know—to feel that we are nothing! there,
There wounds the sting and stabs the envenomed knife;
There is the curdling coldness of despair;
There is the pang that none, can battle with or bear!

317

CCLII

I loathe the love that doth consume my Soul;
Contemn, condemn myself for evermore;
Chide, but not count the moments, as they roll;
Yield weakly, yet the while abjure, abhor
My heart's fond weakness, until all is o'er.
My life is but a conflict—a defeat—
Stung, wrung with shame, with self-reproaches sore;
Repulses and reverses still I meet—
It must not, cannot be,—there may be no retreat!

CCLIII

Thou wert my Feeling! now, that thou art lost,
My Heart and Soul are ashes!—things that were!—
Phantasms of Being!—Ah! beloved the most;—
Beloved to anguish, madness and despair,
Canst thou, indeed, be cause of all my care,
Withering and deadly as it is?—thou!—thou!
So perfect and so matchless, all the air
Around thee groweth sunny from thy brow;
I feel thy presence e'en must make me happy now!

CCLIV

And can such sufferings spring from source so bright?
True! the wild lightning darteth from on high,
With fatal powers to scathe and blast and blight,
Fresh from the heaven!—new born from out the sky!—
Well! thou'rt the torturer, and the sufferer I.—
One moment yet may come to pay long years—
Years lengthened out by wasting misery—
One moment of regrets and doubts and fears,
When conscience, roused at length, her rod of snakes uprears.

318

CCLV

Then mayst thou mourn—ev'n mourn like unto me;
Thou mayst the stricken sufferer then become!
Thank Heaven that I can ne'er the torturer be,
Before that hour laid lonely in the tomb,
Shall I transported be from Gloom to Gloom!
E'en now with thy anticipated pangs—
My wrenched heart bleeds, forgetting its own doom—
Oh! but to save thee from Remorse' sharp fangs,
The last, vain, worst remorse, which round the chilled heart hangs.

CCLVI

My last of hopes hath faded from me fast;
And must I lose it? Fool!—ev'n let it go,
And pillow on Despair's cold cheek, at last,
Thine own, and make a surfeit of thy woe—
Strike to my heart's quick, with thy poisoned blow,
Dark Disappointment!—whatsoe'er the pain,
Be it but sharp and sudden!—all too slow
The suffocating tightening of the chain,
Of stern suspense appeared, compressing pulse and brain.

CCLVII

How many schemes of suffering seemed to glance
Then through my Soul; so would I bear, and thus
We must dress up our Griefs, nor take by chance
Their dark inflictions, when they fall on us—
We must be cunning or be valorous;
Thus meet them, or thus ward them off and foil;—
Must thrust them back or thwart them!—Marvellous!
How marvellous, we still take such vain toil,
Nor have discovered yet we must be made their spoil!

319

CCLVIII

Illusion all! there is no hope, no way;
For Sorrow reigneth—and must be obeyed.
The heart strives to rebel—and must obey,
Still her true subject, and her vassal made;
Her heavy yoke is sternly on it laid.
It must submit and crouch and kiss her foot.
Fain 'twould a traitor prove, but none shall aid;
It must be loyal still! nor can dispute
Her fatal sway, when once it tastes her bitter fruit.

CCLIX

Thanks for this worst of suffering! now I know
My present and my future! all that I
May ever have to bear of grief and woe;
The farthest stretch of utterest misery;
No more, blindfolded, draw I trustful nigh
Unto the precipice, but clearly view
Those depths of gloom wherein, I speed—to die.
Thanks for thy cruelty! my Soul shall through
All known despairs move calm—and their worst tortures woo.

CCLX

And is this so?—shall this be so?—but why,
Why throbs this more than madness thro' my brain?
Wherefore this burst of fiery agony?
Why, why this racking bitterness of pain?
Nor thought, nor zeal, nor courage, nor disdain,
May now avail me—'tis an empty boast.
Each thought I arm and fire, each nerve I strain,
And think to stand, unblenching, at my post.
Why, even the wish to shun the mortal stroke is lost!

320

CCLXI

Now then I yield my Soul, but ne'er till now;
'Tis not worth guarding, widowed thus of thine.
Now dire convulsions wring this clammy brow,
And anguish dwells within the heart's crushed shrine;
Take, then, this crushed and broken heart of mine;
Take it, and trample on it, if thou wilt;
But to the last be it the slave of thine—
Methinks its latest, living drops were spilt,
When that stern blow was dealt—and could thine be the guilt?

CCLXII

The trees have into golden foliage leafed,
With Morn's rich, rosy rays they kindling burn,
Like glittering arrows in bright portions sheaf'd;
The flowers all sunflowers seem—all seem to turn,
To hail the rising orb, with bell and urn,
And cup and chalice—'tis a scene supreme,
Whence all is chased of gloomy and of stern;
A world all beauty—and a world all dream,
Which Time goes flowing through, like some sweet sunny stream.

CCLXIII

Morning! thou comest, smiling o'er the earth,
Dancing with light steps o'er a world of graves!
Still waking is to me a dreary birth,
Into a weary realm of groaning slaves,
Owning one mistress—Sorrow—she who paves
That realm with tears and ashes and with thorns;
Still o'er its surface many a tempest raves;
Still many a weeping voice there ceaseless mourns,
And many a fiery heart, too vainly braves and scorns!

321

CCLXIV

Ah! weary Waking to the hopeless heart;
Long seems the day before it, long and drear;
And it must watch through this, and bleed apart,
In suffocating silence!—not a tear
To sooth its anguish or its gloom to cheer.
Ah! waking!—weary moment, when Despair
Resumes its own, and doth at once appear
The horrid truth of the overwhelming care,
Which tho' the heart receives—it feels it may not bear!

CCLXV

I must be silent o'er my many wrongs;
Silent myself, but who shall say that they
Have not a multitude of mighty tongues,
To tell each separate star their story!—say!
Have they not cried to Justice night and day?
I must be silent; since the spark of speech,
Touching the long-laid train of thought's dismay,
Should make Expression one Explosion—teach
My words, strange flames of wrath—distraction's plagues to preach.

CCLXVI

Wherefore for ever and so vainly strive?
Wherefore this endless toil of racking thought?
Sleep, sleep my Heart! and let what will arrive;
Sleep as before these elements were wrought,
Before the hour that saw my birth was brought.
Was life atchieved by our own efforts?—turn
Your thought to this; near life, all else seems nought;
But when shall man a lowly lesson learn?
For, filled with scorn and pride, he ill can truth discern.

322

CCLXVII

Was life atchieved by our own power?—oh! give
One thought to this—for rash we are and blind.
One moment think! is't not a thing to live
Beyond all other things?—He who the mind
Did form—who in the sentient clay enshrined,
Guardeth the life he gave—to Him still leave
The events ye cannot order—be resigned,
And be prepared, nor, over-anxious, weave
The tangled, complex web, nor your own hearts deceive!—

CCLXVIII

Mountains, seas, stars, woods, deserts, glorious world!—
My spirit greets ye with great raptures free,
And, like some bright, broad banner fresh unfurled,
Loves the wild winds that spread it forth to see—
In power, in triumph—pomp and victory—
'Tis Nature spreads it forth; like some strong wind
She openeth all its folds!—that mightiest be—
Strong is she to unfurl and to unbind,
And in its regal pride, displays the awakened mind.

CCLXIX

Seas, forests, rivers, deserts, mountains, ye!—
Ye are the subjects of the Soul supreme.
Heaven gave the mastery and the sovereignty
To that, and forth in power its great thoughts stream,
(While like to fresh-created stars they beam,)
To seize their dread dominion, proud and wide.—
The mind is lord and master!—its crowned Dream
Lends to the heaven-kiss'd hills their loftiest pride,
And gives another strength to Ocean's glorious tide.

323

CCLXX

Nature is but a subject of the Soul!
And he who trembles to her grandest show,
But thrills to his own thoughts! that still the whole
Connect with One idea, from whence doth flow
The truth and strength of grandeur,—whence still grow
Those elements of greatness, which o'erpower
That spirit that may little guess or know
Its own transcendant influence in such hour;
Thou'rt the Soul's subject!—thou!—Queen Nature!—with thy dower.

CCLXXI

Each sees his Image in the Universe,
Even as his Maker's traced on his own Soul,
And still, until the day of shroud and hearse,
Hails he that image, stamped upon the whole.
The Stars confess it as they blaze and roll;
And the Ocean glasses it in storm or rest;
The Mountains own its presence and controul;—
That Image is the high and glorious guest
Of all that spreads around—proved—blazoned—shown—confessed!

CCLXXII

Be silent, then!—my spirit! ask not thou
Their secrets of the immortal stars above.
Be silent,—hushed,—and they shall utter now
To thee, in gorgeous languages of love,
More than their mysteries; for they live and move
In the great shadow of one Being still;
And to the listening spirit this they prove,
By wordless argument, that maketh thrill
The Soul in concord deep, with her own sovereign will!”

324

CCLXXIII

But now less troubled have his thoughts become,
As though high Nature's very name could charm—
Could soothe the tempest, and could cheer the gloom—
The fever slake—the fierceness all disarm.
His heart, e'en as he speaks it, waxeth warm;
glow of healthful feeling there once more
Spreads kindling, while in rapid rushing swarm
Free thoughts along his spirit brightly pour,
Though mournful still—yet not, distracted as before!

CCLXXIV

It was the sweet fall of the leaf of day!—
A tender silence brooded far around;
The clouds were crisped and reddening as decay
Were beautifully busy there—the ground
Was growing shadowy, and the horizon's bound
Seemed wavering in uncertainty; but still
Those parting clouds with faint rose-tints were crowned,
Like to the leaves, when Autumn's reign is chill,
And they are lightly blown o'er vale and breezy hill!

CCLXXV

That twilight-tenderness—that sunset's calm
Had touched his mind—and unto peace had won,—
Fell softly on it healing dews of balm;
His storm of Soul went down as with the Sun;
Like that his Soul a fiery race had run;
But now his thoughts, in less unquiet strain,
Flowed on, while Evening spread her mantle dun,
By slow degrees o'er wood and field and plain;
And these the fair links were of that long lightning-chain.

325

CCLXXVI

“Evening hath kissed the fading brow of earth:—
Night! mount thy thousand burning thrones on high!
Blessed be the hour of thy majestic birth—
Draw every thought and dream unto the sky—
Till Time seems melting in the Eternity!—
The season of the immortal Soul thou art.
Then doth she, soaring, ride abroad and fly;
But keeps the treasures of her trust apart—
While from Day's dazzling arch the o'erpowering splendours dart.

CCLXXVII

It is the dawn—the morning of the night—
Slow wake her suns of beauty, soft and slow,
As with a conscious power, a feeling light!
And round, a radiant atmosphere they throw,
Each with a sacred lustre seems to glow—
Though far, though faint, how near unto the thought,
That springs at once from this dull world below;
Even shivered into all those stars!—so fraught
With power and mystery deep—by hand omnific wrought.

CCLXXVIII

Hail to the rising of ten thousand Suns!
Who calls thee Night—thou glorious Day in Heaven?
With all thy burning worlds, the immortal ones!
Shades draw round these, to be before them driven.
What majesty is to thy beauty given,
Most royal Night!—triumphant in thine hour,
Thou Queen of Earth and Heaven! my soul hath striven
With thee full oft to gain more might, more power,
E'en from defeat—while thou shar'st with her thy proud dower.

326

CCLXXIX

The Night comes clad in beauty, like the Morn,
And floods with sparkling splendours, wood and vale,
E'en like some new perfection seems she born;
And Day beside her should look poor and pale.
Aye! not one sun!—ten thousand now we hail!—
'Tis a most rare and troubling lustre shed
O'er all things—o'er all objects that must fail
To show forth their own hues, but glitter, spread
With those clear chrystal smiles, from whence all dyes have fled.

CCLXXX

The voice of winds falls faint upon mine ear,
A deep sound in the night—the holy night,
When something like to awe—unlike to fear,
Doth thrill the spirit with a solemn might.
It rolls its Sea of shadows and of light,
Whose waves break o'er Creation free and far!—
And beautiful it grows in its own sight!—
Those waves all flushed with rainbow-splendours are,
Or robed in regal gloom, like Midnight in her car.

CCLXXXI

While Newton grows the interpreter august,
The Moses of great Nature and her laws,
And soars above our human clay and dust,
With power that thrills, astonishes, and awes,
Not only see! his mighty hand withdraws
The veil from heaven; but gloriously he makes
Discoveries more astounding still; because
Each wonderous step, he thus sublimely takes,
Opens new Worlds of Soul!—'tis there the chief light breaks!

327

CCLXXXII

There—there, ev'n in that Everlasting Soul,
His noblest best discoveries were made!
What are those worlds that shine and burn and roll,
Compared with ev'n the shadow of her shade?
The Infinite Soul, great Sage! you best displayed
When your grand Thought o'erflowed the unbounded space,
She!—capable of Universes!—weighed
No more with dust and ashes of man's race,
Then sprang to loftier life, with all life to embrace!—

CCLXXXIII

Newton! to what high task wert thou addressed;
Made, as it were, Messiah of the Mind!—
Went forth the eternal fiat and behest,
That thy starred thoughts should crown it—raise—unbind;
For erring 'twas in sooth—'twas bowed and blind!
Those thoughts—which triumphing, yet lowly too,
Of Nature's glorious labyrinths—did find,
At length, in happiest hour, the long-sought clue!—
While their crowned truths shall blaze, all lengthening ages through.

CCLXXXIV

What then became they?—those dread thoughts and high—
Raised to that towering eminence and lone?
Ah! may we deem, without impiety,
The armed Mediators ev'n between our own
And our Almighty Maker's!—ne'er yet shown
So clearly to his creatures, as when thou,
Breathing at least one shadow from the throne,
Bade men before the amazing Wisdom bow,
That worlds by myriads taught, one Law's strong power to avow!

328

CCLXXXV

His thoughts are not as our thoughts! yet thou hast
Given us that truth more reverently to feel—
More deeply to confess than in the past,
By that thou wert permitted to reveal—
That faint uplifting of the mystic seal!
Well may man start, with searching awe dismayed,
And feel he can but tremble, weep, and kneel
Down to the dust, with adoration weighed!—
As Mediators thus—thy sovereign thoughts were made!

CCLXXXVI

And now the immeasurable distance owned,
And now the unutterable triumph felt—
Of Him, in all omnipotence enthroned,
Must from man's Soul the pride of knowledge melt:—
How wondrously, Creator, hast thou dealt!
How the faint outlines of thy thoughts—scarce traced—
The loosening of their adamantine belt—
Make ours, though sphered with suns, with the ether spaced
Confess—they sink with Night's black ignorance embraced.

CCLXXXVII

Shine! Sun—and Suns of Morn—of Midnight—shine!
Souls of strange systems—centre of our own!—
Our vileness cannot make ye less divine.
Ye are not tainted, that so long have shone
O'er this polluted world; o'er ye hath blown
No human breath to blight; the very sea,
Hath been incardined with blood, and known
The foulness of man's folly—ye shall be—
From every taint of this and human tracery—free!

329

CCLXXXVIII

Yet once more turns my wandering thought to Him
Who trod the Winepress of God's Worlds for man!
Heaping the cup of knowledge to the brim,
Till soon through the universal spirit ran,
(Which spurned, rejoicingly, this earthly span,)
The enkindling ecstacies of consciousness!
As immortality ev'n then began
To bloom upon its surface—and not less
Those thrills of lowlier zeal—that with rapt awe impress.

CCLXXXIX

Honour to him, the meek and reverent sage,
Who trembling touched the Eternity's deep things,
Boast of his own and light of every age!
Sounding Creation's great and awful springs,
Mounting, as 'twere upon a cherub's wings,
His holy lore with holier love entwined.
Weak seems Earth's conquering leaders and crowned kings,
Near him who—made the enlightener of mankind—
Heaved up to Highest Heaven the Mountain of his Mind!

CCXC

What will'st thou with me? oh, thou star divine!
I have no sphere, no place, no part, no light.
I cannot commune with thee!—nought of mine
Can e'er with aught of thee or thine unite!
If thou wouldst have me love thee—be not bright.
Thy brightness is a bitterness to me!—
I turn away and tremble; for my sight
Grows troubled, dimmed with tears, while hopelessly
I gaze upon thee there—creature of Heaven—Land thee!

330

CCXCI

I turn aside—yet turn again to gaze
On thee, despite these tremblings and these tears;
There seems a breathing blessing on thy rays,
That scatters hope among my many fears,
And wins me from the past and perished years.
Thou shalt become, awhile, my Soul! sweet Star;
For loves she still to haunt the immortal spheres—
My Soul?—fair light! thy beams so precious are,
Methinks loved spirits dwell, in thine ambrosial car!

CCXCII

Methinks the bright souls of the loved have drawn
My deep heart there, that they, ev'n they, are Thee!
Thy tender radiance—that divinest dawn
Of their new-flowering immortality!—
Sweet Star!—yet brighter grow—more radiant be!—
Ah! why so fatally—so coldly far?
Let me the beauty of their being see!—
When comes proud Day upon his kingly car—
Methinks I shall not see the Sun for thee—thou Star!

CCXCIII

Art thou their Soul of love—beloved Light?—
Are these clear rays their precious thoughts, that still
Seek earth, ev'n streaming from those mansions bright,
With dear affection, change may never chill!—
Making this earth part of their heaven, until
The cherished, that they knew and loved of old,
With them those high and happy mansions fill.
Ah! gentlest phantasie, of worth untold,
Must ye be chased away by Reason, calm and cold?

331

CCXCIV

My life seems verily a void, a waste,
The troubled foam without, the sea beneath!
Torn even from their vain roots its tares of haste—
A grave!—yet ev'n deserted by black Death,
A blank, a solitude indeed—my breath
Is sighs—all sighs—my very looks are tears!
The rusted sword plucked from the rifled shea!
Ere yet Decay hath parted them!—my years
Are years of suffering still, though crushed my soul appears!

CCXCV

[OMITTED]

CCXCVI

We are resolved to dust when first our hearts
Die to their first fresh feelings and decay;
Forsake their fond affections—miss their parts,
And fill the engulphing grave, day after day,
As with Death's foreshown shadow!—oh! dismay!
Dust, dust indeed must we become when we
No longer live to own deep feeling's sway,
With the impulses of Life's best energy—
Then dust to dust we sink—and yet we are not free!

332

CCXCVII

We are not free! but the most bound of slaves,
Abject and grovelling, creeping, base and mean.
Too noble are the mansions of the graves—
(Where sleep the silenced thunderers of the earth's scene,
The great, the wise, the virtuous, the serene,
The valourous, and the exalted) for us then!—
If we, indeed, with blank indifference lean
From our high destinies—and in dark den
Of Earth's corruption crouch—nor rise—revived again!

CCXCVIII

I know thy love another's! and I live!
Ah! life of death and punishment and pain!—
All the agonies that Death is made to give
Life yields to me again and yet again!
The curdling blood stands still in every vein,
Or like a torrent rushes wildly on;
Thought fades, expiring on my tortured brain,
Or whirls in horrid phrenzy, racked, undone,
My fainting breath to choak, my shudd'ring Soul to stun.

CCXCIX

I know thy heart is not, nor may be mine;
I know it and I live!—then what is Life?
A chain that round us doth too sternly twine,
And close and clasp with torture and with strife!—
Mine is with every wretchedness how rife!
But still I love my heart-consuming woe,
And press this bosom 'gainst the poisoned knife,
That yet, with countless sufferings, sharp and slow,
May set me free at length:—dark days—yet faster flow!

333

CCC

Where shines the day-light lovelier and more fair?
Where smiles the earth more flowery, rich and bright?
Where is the softest incense spread for air,
And sunshine of the very Soul for light?
Where doth the scene the rapid thought invite,
To fold its pinions and in peace enjoy?
Where is all sweet to sense and soul and sight?
Where bright repose and bliss without alloy?
Where, where art thou?—for there—Delight's blest height must cloy!

CCCI

Rise! Oh! ye sovereign Spirits of my Thought,
Mount onwards!—upwards!—pass both star and cloud!
And bring me what 'tis well should here be brought;
(Shake slumber from ye as some leaden shroud!)
Mount! bring me strength! through journeyings bright and proud.
Droop not!—haste! bring me strength, from realms of light;
Since I, with very mortal weakness bowed,
Stumble through all the darkness of Life's night—
Mount! mount!—haste!—bring me strength, from regions blest and bright.

CCCII

Immortal Spirits of my Thought! arise!
How can ye bear the fetter and the file?
Soar on the wings of freedom to the skies—
And bask in the triumphant sunshine's smile!
What upon earth can sooth ye or beguile,
Or draw ye from your loftier course away.
Pause not to trample on things—base and vile!—
Leave them behind, and in the unclouded ray,
Shine as it shines—with light beyond all light of day.

334

CCCIII

No! no! 'tis vain!—the Vanity of Hope!—
And have I not abjured her, loathed and scorned;
Once more to earth the weigh'd-down wanderers stoop.
They rose in might! in weakness have returned!
And I once more have bowed my soul and mourned,
In place of strength but wild desires they bring,—
And aspirations that once seemed adorned
With splendours of all promise!—but they fling
Such specious shows away—it is a weary thing!

CCCIV

Out upon Life!—the lengthening agony!
And Thought the Terror!—and false Time the Tomb!—
And Love the dream—and Joy the shadow!—die!—
Die, weary wretch! to 'scape far heavier gloom!
Let the elements thine elements resume!
Out upon Earth!—the dungeon and the waste—
And Hope the reed—and Grief the common doom—
Must the parched lip no drops of sweetness taste,
The palsied hand but pluck the tares of heat and haste?

CCCV

Out upon Death too! he!—the Inheritor!
He gathers up the spoils of all we lose;
His is the sole success! and more and more
He triumphs, as the wronged Earth doth refuse
All comfort—paling in her troubled hues,
As glory after glory doth depart,
And her Beloved the eternal Darkness woos;
Still shall she hold unto her heavy heart
Sons that are strangers—while its core must ache and smart.

335

CCCVI

Ache for the lost ones; for the still and cold,
That sleep indeed on that Great Mother's breast;
But smile not back her smiles, as erst of old!—
Dark their repose and joyless is their rest;
And thus she mourns—a mother most unblest!—
Above them evermore—she mourns, and makes
Her moan i' the hollow ear of Night, distress'd
And desolate, and tells to Time how aches
That hopeless heart of hers—but there no pity wakes!

CCCVII

When shall the change come? for this shall not last;
The hours roll on unto their term and thine,
Oh! Time!—that shall at length be all—the Past!
No Present shall be left to smile and shine,
And call the Sun its light, in his proud shrine
Of glowing sky!—no Future to appear,
All that is fair and radiant and divine!
But all the Past! the silent and the drear,
Time shalt thou then be made!—cut down in thy career.

CCCVIII

Where, where art thou?—eternal question, vain,
No matter!—wheresoe'er thou wert or art;
We must for ever parted still remain,
Though with one Soul, one mind, one living heart;
Fair shows the noon of Night!—to glory start
The unnumbered stars!—I look with careless eye
On worlds by myriads—mine is far apart,
Ev'n in thy Soul, Beloved!—the o'erpeopled sky
To me a desert is—where Hopes, Thoughts, Feelings die.

336

CCCIX

Where do they live, then? for this earth below
Long since hath been their grave!—their life is nought;
Back to my lonely, wounded Soul they flow,
Feeling by feeling still—and thought by thought;
Yet Inspiration's fires of old they caught,
And Passion's finest ardours—but 'tis done.
Could they the lesson of my life be taught!—
And own, indeed, nought here is to be won;
Nothing but Pain and Fear and Death beneath the sun.

CCCX

I am alone now with my destiny!
And that is what my heart, too deep—too true,
Hath made it!—for I will not think of thee,
Whom I have made the tool myself to undo!
But other thoughts of bitterness will woo
To shut out that! so smothering grief with grief!—
Anguish with anguish!—let me wander through
Life's labyrinths—hopeless ever of relief—
Tangled and thorny they—but their worst paths are brief!

CCCXI

The dolphin's death a rainbow beauty shows!—
The wild-swan's is one music sweet and deep,
And scented is the ruin of the rose—
When crushed its leaves their ordorous treasures weep;
The ringing lyre one rich, rich thrill doth keep,
For its last tone, when riven, break chords and frame!
But the bruised heart!—alas!—some smouldering heap
Of lifeless ashes, with nor light nor flame,
Worthless and powerless all—should surely seem the same.

337

CCCXII

It gives no treasured odour at the last—
No thrill of dying sweetness, full and long,
Arrayed in no fair colours, doth it waste:
It hath no parting ecstacy of song!—
Crushed to the dust by tyranny and wrong,
It dieth as the worm dies!—writhing still—
Yet scarce resisting!—for the foe is strong!—
It hath no hope—no energy—no will—
No strength hath it to strive—and ah! to shun, no skill!

CCCXIII

For these immediate objects they are vain
For me!—far, far are all my trusts and joys!—
Enough! I can but crush my killing pain,
Or be crushed by it! for it oft destroys
The fading Heart, which no dear hope upbuoys;
And no kind consolation comes to cheer
Pain's dreadful war, without or strife or noise,
Seems carried on, till all things, far and near,
Grow dark as fate to us—faint—hopeless—helpless—here.

CCCXIV

But let me check these murmuring thoughts and wild!—
These maddening phantoms of the fevered brain—
Darkness on Darkness seemeth heaped and piled—
But one Star cometh forth to rise and reign!—
And show the heaven hung o'er the raging main;
One Star of a most distant Hope!—to fill
My spirit with pure dreams and trusts again—
Thoughts! an Almighty Audience have ye still!
How dare ye thus, in vein, of troublous strife, to thrill?

338

CCCXV

Could we but think! how all our Soul lies bared
To that dread Eye that knoweth not of sleep!
Ah! could we dare, as we have ofttimes dared,
To let that Soul in strong defiance keep,
(Gathering its worlds of waters as an heap!)
Its stubborn attitude of reckless ire,
Or fixed despair, or vengeance dark and deep;—
But we forget what we should most desire
Ever to keep in mind—disastrous truth and dire!

CCCXVI

[OMITTED]

CCCXVII

They told me of a woman who of joy,
Of very joy died!—phrenzied and o'erwrought!
Died—died and was not!—bliss could thus destroy,
And the bright Angel, the pale Angel brought!—
No racking agonies her heart was taught—
It bounded with one spring—to beat no more!
From earth almost unconsciously 'twas caught,
Rapt in one moment to the etherial shore,
It knew not Death was near, ere quivering Life was o'er.

339

CCCXVIII

Oh! blissful Death—all Life's deliciousness—
Into thy costly pangs seemed pressed—and given
To thy rich hour of Rapture's full excess—
What was that woman's tale?—she long had striven
'Gainst vain regrets, by which her heart was riven!
For her lost child! but she hath found the sought—
Her Soul its Happiness mistakes for Heaven!—
(Heaven bade her not be of such bliss—untaught;)
Then smiled itself even there, upon that very thought!

CCCXIX

Go forth! my thoughts! I charge ye! on your way;
Yet once again I charge ye, for the sake
Of all beloved and blessed things! the ray
Of light not swifter from the cloud shall break,
Than ye from my wrung Soul! arise! awake!
Spring from this gloomy bound, this earthly shore;
The wings of lightning and the morning take,
And rise and rise—for ever dart and soar;
For I will check your flight and clip your wings no more.

CCCXX

Aching with adoration, then my thought
Rose from me, as my very Soul would leave
Its earthly tenement—for deeply, brought
To the last pitch of feeling, did it heave
With over-life, and to its depths receive
The Power it could not hope ev'n to contain,
Which seemed each panting, shuddering thought to cleave.
'Twas the Agony of Adoration!—brain—
And heart could scarce endure, yet willed thus to remain!

340

CCCXXI

Creator! didst Thou, at Thy choice and will,
Take to Thyself all Godhead;—not to be
Greater than Thou still wert! and shalt be still!
But to endow Thy dread Infinity
With that which all might worship, thus, as Thee!
When other beings Thou didst deign create,
Didst Thou then will, in mercy, to decree,
That they should glorify their lesser state
By some fixed thought of Thee, to bless their doom and date.

CCCXXII

Thou puttedst glory from Thee, doubtless, then,
When so Thou deign'dst to cause and to create!—
Else all Thy works, or worlds, or suns, or men
Had too been God!—too full of Thy dread state
And might!—Thou castedst from Thee a vast weight
Of glory, to frame ought that might not be,
Lord, too ev'n like Thyself!—Thy power is great!
But nowhere is't more proudly shown by Thee
Than thus—that Thou canst form what is not Deity.

CCCXXIII

But yet how splendid, all thy works sublime!
How wonderous, how stupendous, how supreme;
By mighty steps towards Thy great throne they climb.
Creation?—who of this can rightly deem?
Too inexhaustible the astounding theme!
The Soul?—with mystery sheathed, with mastery shod,
Thou will'st herself should crown the unfinish'd scheme!
And rise to heights divine—as yet untrod:—
Heaven in creating Man—bade Man create a God!

341

CCCXXIV

Yet 'tis but as the Imperial Intellect
May work its part; for man hath darkly brought
On his stained spirit, clouded, scathed and wrecked,
Ruin! from whence to raise it are as nought
All powers of mind, though with all wisdom fraught,
All knowledge, arts and skill, their strength is none—
Vain the all-illustrious empiry of the thought;
One only can redeem—and One atone!—
He—the Everlasting Son!—the Light of Light alone!

CCCXXV

Thou deign'st be Deity!—Lord! Thou, who art
Beyond all thought hath knowledge of! 'twas thine
To stoop to grandeur as an humbler part!—
Vouchafe to be eternal and divine!
Descend to be Omnipotent!—decline
From thy veiled state to put on God-like state,
Submitting to be worshipped!—and to shrine
Thine Infinites in Being!—vindicate
Thy glory in the event—for this all worlds yet wait!

CCCXXVI

Space, like One star, shines out beneath Thy feet,
Thou! who conceivedst the Eternity;
Which lighteneth a bright ray from Thy throned seat.
Thou tak'st thine earth-known attributes to Thee,
And man will dream that these Thyself can be—
These! but the enshrouding veil, the encircling wall!
But mortals' vain conceptions move not free;
Since one just thought of Thee, Supreme of All!
Would grow ev'n to a God!—it should not be, nor shall!

342

CCCXXVII

Aye! a just thought of Thee would grow a God!
And stun creation with dismayed surprise;
The Heaven of Heavens too low for its abode—
The Stars but steps to lead it past the skies!
Ah! crowned with myriad-empired Majesties!—
Could ev'n such pomp of thought o'ertake Thee?—peace!
Into Thyself dost Thou for ever rise—
And glory in the Highest is—Increase!
The arch-thought that reached Thee now—should, straight out-towered, surcease!

CCCXXVIII

Peace!—all our worship is but as a waste!—
Our Adoration is an empty thing—
Thine honour by our homage is disgraced.
To thee we can but graceless offerings bring;
Gifts that are ashes, at thy footstool fling;
Yet, deign with our unworthiness, to bear.
Thou!—of all lords the Lord!—all kings the King!—
Prompt in our Souls the purest, holiest prayer,
Thus shed of Heaven, at least, one trembling shadow there.

CCCXXIX

[OMITTED]

343

CCCXXX

My foreign travel, for awhile, must cease,
Since I return to Home Land o'er the sea!
Country of freedom, promise, and of peace,—
England! mine own high Home! I haste to thee;
Yet not ungrateful, not forgetful be,
My Heart; but keep a thousand memories dear,
Of scenes and new-made friends, from whom to flee
Is now my doom!—howe'er it may appear,
We have a Home and Land, where'er Friends rise up near!

CCCXXXI

Once more on England's hallowed shores I tread;
Once more come home!—unto thy Mother-heart,
My Land of Birth and Love! how brightly spread
Around now glows the sky, that where thou art
Looks lovelier—felt with our immortal part—
We see it with the Soul!—that native Sky
Indeed seems Heaven!—What tears of gladness start,
From eyes that gaze on it, and there descry
Affection in those smiles of softened brilliancy!”

Aggstein.

North-east wind.

This mosque is said to be built of the ruins of St. Euphemia in Chalcedonia.

The Hippodrome.

Yoghourt.

Interpreter.

Tartar's saddle.

Brigands.

A wooden cross.

Turkish word for feast.

Turkish word for farewell.

Quarter.

Saint John Nepomuk.

The Hon. Major Howard

THE END.