The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Here from the mould to conscious being start
Those finer forms, the miracles of art;
Here chosen Gems, imprest on sulphur, shine,
That slept for ages in a second mine.”
ROGERS.

253

PERICLES AND ASPASIA.

This was the ruler of the land,
When Athens was the land of fame;
This was the light that led the band,
When each was like a living flame:
The centre of earth's noblest ring,
Of more than men, the more than king!

254

Yet, not by fetter, nor by spear,
His sovereignty was held or won;
Fear'd—but alone as freemen fear;
Loved—but as freemen love alone:
He waved the sceptre o'er his kind,
By Nature's first great title—mind!

Resistless words were on his tongue;
Then eloquence first flash'd below!
Full arm'd to life the portent sprung,
Minerva, from the Thunderer's brow!
And his the sole, the sacred hand,
That shook her ægis o'er the land!

And throned immortal, by his side,
A woman sits, with eye sublime—
Aspasia, all his spirit's bride;
But if their solemn love were crime,
Pity the beauty and the sage;
Their crime was in their darken'd age.

255

He perish'd—but his wreath was won—
He perish'd on his height of fame!
Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun;
Yet still she conquer'd in his name.
Fill'd with his soul, she could not die;
Her conquest was Posterity!

256

THE GENIUS OF DEATH.

What is Death? 'Tis to be free!
No more to love, or hope, or fear—
To join the great equality:
All alike are humbled there!
The mighty grave
Wraps lord and slave;
Nor pride nor poverty dares come
Within that refuge-house, the tomb!

257

Spirit with the drooping wing,
And the ever-weeping eye,
Thou of all earth's kings art king!
Empires at thy footstool lie!
Beneath thee strew'd
Their multitude
Sink, like waves upon the shore;
Storms shall never rouse them more!

What's the grandeur of the earth
To the grandeur round thy throne!
Riches, glory, beauty, birth,
To thy kingdom all have gone.
Before thee stand
The wond'rous band;
Bards, heroes, sages, side by side,
Who darken'd nations when they died!

258

Earth has hosts; but thou canst show
Many a million for her one;
Through thy gates the mortal flow
Has for countless years roll'd on:
Back from the tomb
No step has come;
There fix'd, till the last thunder's sound
Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound!

259

A WOMAN CONTEMPLATING A HOUSEHOLD GOD.

Domestic Love! not in proud palace halls
Is often seen thy beauty to abide;
Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls,
That in the thickets of the woodbine hide;
With hum of bees around, and from the side
Of woody hills some little bubbling spring,
Shining along through banks with harebells dyed;
And many a bird to warble on the wing,
When Morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling.

260

O! love of loves!—to thy white hand is given
Of earthly happiness the golden key!
Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even,
When the babes cling around their father's knee;
And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home,
Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see.
Spirit! I've built a shrine; and thou hast come,
And on its altar closed—for ever closed thy plume!

261

LEONIDAS.

Shout for the mighty men
Who died along this shore—
Who died within this mountain glen!
For never nobler chieftain's head
Was laid on Valour's crimson bed,
Nor ever prouder gore
Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day
Upon thy strand, Thermopylæ!

262

Shout for the mighty men,
Who on the Persian tents,
Like lions from their midnight den,
Bounding on the slumbering deer,
Rush'd—a storm of sword and spear;—
Like the roused elements,
Let loose from an immortal hand,
To chasten or to crush a land!

But there are none to hear;
Greece is a hopeless slave.
Leonidas! no hand is near
To lift thy fiery falchion now;
No warrior makes the warrior's vow
Upon thy sea-wash'd grave.
The voice that should be raised by men,
Must now be given by wave and glen.

263

And it is given!—the surge—
The tree—the rock—the sand—
On Freedom's kneeling spirit urge,
In sounds that speak but to the free,
The memory of thine and thee!
The vision of thy band
Still gleams within the glorious dell,
Where their gore hallow'd, as it fell!

And is thy grandeur done?
Mother of men like these!
Has not thy outcry gone,
Where Justice has an ear to hear?—
Be holy! God shall guide thy spear;
Till in thy crimson'd seas,
Are plunged the chain and scimitar,
Greece shall be a new-born Star!

264

CASTOR AND POLLUX.

When Winter dips his pinion in the seas,
And mariners shudder, as the chilling gale
Makes its wild music through the Cyclades;
What eyes are fix'd upon the cloudy veil,
Twin Warriors! to behold your sapphire mail,
Shooting its splendours through the rifted sky!
What joyous hymns your stars of beauty hail!
For then the tempests to their caverns fly,
And on the pebbled shore the yellow surges die.

265

CUPID BREAKING THE THUNDERBOLT.

Where is, O Love! thy nest?
Is it in Beauty's breast,
Or in the meshes of her chestnut hair?
Or do thine arrows fly,
Wing'd from her azure eye,
Or from her coral lip's delicious air.

O love! 'tis all the same;
For thy subduing flame,
Alike by sunny tress and sigh is fann'd;
And hearts, in all their pride,
Have in sweet passion died,
Ev'n at the faint touch of her snowy hand.

266

Sceptres are weak to thee,
Thou thing of infancy!
Thy childish wrath can break the bolts of Jove.
Yet deadlier is thy smile,
The spirit to beguile,
Making the tomb the bride-bed—faithless Love!

267

A FAUN.

Shadow me, woods! and let your branches wave,
Making sweet music to my drowsy ear:
Be dim, fair moon! and through the leafy roof
Seem but a twinkling lamp; and every breeze
Die on your flowery beds, until my eyes
Yield to this pleasant heaviness!

And hark!
There is a gentle music in the air!
The moon is but a lamp, and the rude wind
Has died upon the rose!—Come, gentle dream!

This is Elysium! All the grove is fill'd
With sights and sounds of wonder:—There's no tree,
But opening lets a goddess forth; the streams

268

Send up bright shapes, that from their lilied hair
Wring out the sparkling waters; all the hills
Are starr'd with silver fires; the marble caves
Show through their ivy curtains sylvan lamps,
Lit by the glow-worm's torch; and airy songs
Bewitch the night.

This is the woodland King!
And here upon his lonely throne he sits,
Entranced, with his sweet pipe fix'd at his foot,
And listens to the revelry,—till Morn,
Led by the gray-hair'd Twilight from her couch,
Comes, like a blushing bride, to meet the Sun!

269

CUPID CARRYING PROVISIONS. A.D. 1600.

There was once a gentle time
Whenne the world was in its prime;
And everie day was holydaye,
And everie monthe was lovelie Maye.—
Cupide thenne hadde but to goe
With his purple winges and bowe;
And in blossomede vale and grove
Everie shepherde knelte to Love.

Thenne a rosie, dimplede cheeke,
And a blue eye fonde and meeke;

270

And a ringlette-wreathenne browe,
Like hyacynthes on a bed of snowe;
And a lowe voice silverre sweete
From a lippe without deceite:
Onlie those the heartes coulde move
Of the simple swaines to love.

But thatte time is gone and paste;
Canne the summerre alwayes laste!
And the swaines are wiser growne,
And the hearte is turnede to stone,
And the maidenne's rose may witherre,
Cupide's fled, no manne knowes whitherre!

But anotherre Cupide's come,
With a browe of care and gloome;
Fixede upon the earthlie moulde,
Thinkinge of the sullenne golde:
In his hande the bowe no more,
At his backe the householde store,

271

That the bridalle colde muste buye;
Uselesse nowe the smile ande sighe:
But he weares the pinion stille,
Flyinge at the sighte of ille.
Oh, for the olde true-love time,
Whenne the worlde was in its prime!

272

SAPPHO.

Look on this brow!—the laurel wreath
Beam'd on it, like a wreath of fire;
For passion gave the living breath,
That shook the chords of Sappho's lyre!

Look on this brow—the lowest slave,
The veriest wretch of want and care,
Might shudder at the lot that gave
Her genius, glory, and despair.

For, from these lips were utter'd sighs,
That more than fever, scorch'd the frame;
And tears were rain'd from these bright eyes,
That from the heart, like life-blood, came.

273

She loved—she felt the lightning-gleam,
That keenest strikes the loftiest mind;
Life quench'd in one ecstatic dream,
The world a waste before—behind.

And she had hope—the treacherous hope,
The last, deep poison of the bowl,
That makes us drain it, drop by drop,
Nor lose one misery of soul.

Then all gave way—mind, passion, pride!
She cast one weeping glance above,
And buried in her bed, the tide,
The whole concentred strife of Love!

274

DIANA.

How like a Queen comes forth the lonely Moon
From the slow-opening curtains of the clouds,
Walking in beauty to her midnight throne!
The stars are veil'd in light; the ocean-floods,
And the ten thousand streams—the boundless woods,
The trackless wilderness—the mountain's brow,
Where Winter on eternal pinions broods—
All height, depth, wildness, grandeur, gloom, below,
Touch'd by thy smile, lone Moon! in one wide splendour glow.

275

GENIUS BOUND.

Glorious Spirit! at whose birth
Joy might fill the conscious earth;
Yet her joy be dash'd with fear,
As at untold danger near;
A comet rising on her gloom,
Or to light her, or consume!

Beauty is upon thy brow!
Such sad beauty as the bow,
Child of shower and sunbeam, wears,
Waked, and vanishing, in tears;
Yet to its splendid moment given
Colours only lit by heaven.

276

Thou canst take the lightning's wings,
And see the deep forbidden things;—
With thy starry sandal tread
On the ocean's treasure bed;
Or make the rolling clouds thy throne;
Height and depth to thee are one!

Prophet Spirit! thou canst sweep
Where the unborn nations sleep;
Or, from the ancient ages' shroud
To judgement call their sceptred crowd;
Earth has to thee nor birth, nor tomb—
Nor past, nor present, nor to come.

Yet here thou sit'st, while earth and heaven
Are to thy radiant empire given.
Alas! I see the manacle!—
And all thy soul has felt the steel;
Thy wing of fire, thy beauty, vain—
For Genius dies beneath the chain!

277

BACCHUS ON A PANTHER.

Boy of beauty rare!
With thy lip in roses dyed,
And that harmless, infant air,
Why upon the panther ride,
Boy of beauty rare?

Sweet one! is't to tell
That within thy cup is woe!
That the victim of thy spell
Passion's fiery speed shall know?—
Thou'rt an oracle!

278

THESEUS.

When Theseus left his Ariadne's side,
Young Bacchus came—at once her tears were dried.
Our widows, hence, disdain in weeds to pine,
But take another husband with their wine!

279

A TRITON AND NEREID.

The day had been a tempest, and our bark,
Ploughing the surly and impetuous surge,
Had reach'd a bay in Crete. The evening fell,
Leaving the sky all painted with bright clouds,
That dyed their crimson on the glassy sea.
So, having moor'd, we lay, like men escaped,
Idly upon the poop and deck, in talk,
Such as the wanderer loves, of fearful wrecks;
Of night surprises, where the slumbering crew
Were woke by pirate swords; of buried gold
In the sea-chambers; of the warnings sweet,

280

That come o' nights between the stormy gusts,
The mermaids' melodies.

At once uprose
A tumult of rich sounds, as if the deep
Were cleft to let them forth: then died as swift,
Leaving us breathless, gazing all perplex'd,
Like spell-struck creatures!—But, anon, the wave
Was fill'd with wonders, wild and green-hair'd men,
With conchs for trumpets, follow'd by fair nymphs,
That show'd their ivory shoulders through the tide;
Some, tossing spears of coral, some, pearl-crown'd,
And scattering roses—or, with lifted hands,
Reining the purple lips of dolphins yoked,
And huge sea-horses.

While we stood amazed;
A meteor shot above, the trumpets swell'd,
And on a sweeping and high-crested surge,
That stoop'd our pennant to its foaming edge,
Rush'd by two sovereign Shapes, hand twined in hand,
In speechless love!—The waves around were swum

281

By crowding Cupids, Tritons, and sweet Nymphs
Filling the perfumed air with harmony.

The pageant flash'd away, and left us dim,
Like men who had seen lightning!

282

ATALANTA.

When the young Greek for Atalanta sigh'd,
He might have fool'd and follow'd, till he died!
He learn'd the sex, the bribe before her roll'd,
And found, the short way to the heart is—Gold!

283

SILENUS LOOKING AT A GOBLET.

Where is the Necromancer? Let him bring
His treasury of charms—rich syrups—herbs
Gather'd in eclipse, or where shooting stars
Sow earth with pearl: or let him call his sprites,
Till the air thickens, and the golden noon,
Smote by their wings, is turn'd to sudden night.
This goblet's worth all magic.

Of its draught
Let sorrow taste, anon, the lifeless lip
Glows crimson; sullen Poverty is rich;
The bondsman's chain is light as gossamer;
The lover's eye, long dim with wasting tears,
Shines brightly, and sees kneeling for a look
The tyrant Beauty; Age is warm'd to Youth;

284

Lean Avarice hoards no more; and crouching Fear
Stalks giant-like: the fretted brows of kings
Forget the feverish pressure of a crown,
And taste as pleasant slumber as the slave's,
That toils for't in the sun.

285

VENUS CLIPPING THE WINGS OF CUPID.

Venus, clippe thy truante's winge:—
For it is the deadliest thinge
'Twixte the rounde earthe and the skie.
Not the poisonne-staines that lie
Glisteninge in the waninge moone,
On the slipperie serpente stone;
Not the droppe of venome hunge
Coldlie from the aspic's tongue;
Not the witche's eville eye,
As she hurries mutteringe bye;
Nothinge born of sunne or gloome,
Is so deadlie as thatte plume!

286

For the hearte's no sooner wonne,
Than the truante Love is gone;
Fickle as the Aprille gale.
Then the maidene's cheeke is pale;
And the vermeile-tincturede lippe,
Riche as rosebuddes when they dippe
In the summerre honeye-dewe,
Dyinge, weares the lilye's hue;
Ande, for smiles, the wearie sighe
On its beautie nowe dothe lie;
Ande the farewelle worde is spokenne—
Ande the maidene's heart is brokenne!

287

FLORA.

The flowers are Nature's jewels, with whose wealth
She decks her summer beauty;—Primrose sweet,
With blossoms of pure gold; enchanting Rose,
That like a virgin queen, salutes the Sun,
Dew-diadem'd; the perfumed Pink, that studs
The earth with clustering ruby; Hyacinth,
The hue of Venus' tresses;—Myrtle green,
That maidens think a charm for constant love,
And give night-kisses to it, and so dream;
Fair Lilly! woman's emblem, and oft twined
Round bosoms, where its silver is unseen,

288

Such is their whiteness;—downcast Violet,
Turning away its sweet head from the wind,
As she her delicate and startled ear
From passion's tale!

289

THE EDUCATION OF BACCHUS.

I had a vision!—'Twas an Indian vale,
Whose sides were all with rosy thickets crown'd,
That never felt the biting winter gale;—
And soon was heard a most delicious sound;
And to its music danced a nymph embrown'd,
Leading a lion in a silken twine,
That with his yellow mane would sweep the ground,
Then on his rider fawn—a boy divine!
While on his foaming lips a nymph shower'd purple wine.

290

PINDAR.

In the grave this head was laid;—
All its atoms in the sun
Through a thousand years have play'd,
Through a thousand shapes have gone:
It has blossom'd in the flower—
It has floated in the wave—
It has lit the starlight hour—
It has whisper'd through the cave!
Has the spirit perish'd all?
This was but its mouldering wall!

291

Fame, the prize of life, was won;
Pindar's mighty task was done;
Then on air his wing was cast!
Like a flame, the soul has past,
While the ashes rest below;—
Like a trumpet's sudden blast,
Gone!—what strength shall check it now?
When the lightning wears a chain,
Pindar's soul shall stoop again!—

Yet the world has need of thee,
Man of Immortality:
Greece,—the name is lost in tears,—
Land of laurels, lyres, and spears!
Visions on that spot have birth,
Brighter than are born of earth:
In that soil of glorious strife,
Not an atom but had life.
Glow'd and triumph'd, fought and died,
As the patriot battle's tide,

292

Flood of arrow, lance, and sword,
O'er the whelm'd invader roar'd.

Hear us! from thy golden sphere!—
Shall the eternal sepulchre
Hide the spirit of the land?
Shall no great, redeeming hand—
(Oh, for such as dyed her seas
In thy day, Miltiades!)
Issuing from her peasant ranks,
Smite the turban'd robber horde,
Till the chain no longer clanks,—
Till the Turkish battle, gored,
Over Helle's purple banks
In returnless flight is pour'd;—
Till the phalanx, laurel-brow'd,
Like a rolling thunder-cloud,
Like a conflagration sweeping,
Of its plague-spot clears the soil;
And no more the voice of weeping,
Woman's shame, or manhood's spoil,

293

Grieves the listening midnight sky?—
Pindar! shall her glory die!
Shall, like thine, no godlike strain
Teach her to be great again?
Hear us, from thy starry throne
Hear!—by those in Marathon!

END OF THE GEMS.