 | Scenes from Scripture with Other Poems |  |
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POEMS
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THE DREAM OF MAHOMET II.
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Sultaun! Sultaun!
Thou art Lord of the World!
The crown of its crowns
At thy footstool is hurled.
Now trembles the West,
The East kneels before thee;
Joy, joy to the breast
Of the mother that bore thee.
Earth's tale shall be told,
Ere thy banner's green fold
Is dust, or thy name
Is no longer a flame!
Thou art Lord of the World!
The crown of its crowns
At thy footstool is hurled.
Now trembles the West,
The East kneels before thee;
Joy, joy to the breast
Of the mother that bore thee.
Earth's tale shall be told,
Ere thy banner's green fold
Is dust, or thy name
Is no longer a flame!
Hark, hark! to the shouts,
Where thy Turcomans lie,
Round the feast on the ramparts,
That blaze to the sky.
Where the battlements reck
With the gore of the Storm;
And the spoils of the Greek
With his heart's-blood are warm;
And his new-wedded bride,
By the conqueror's side,
As his corpse, wan and cold,
Sits in fetters of gold!
Where thy Turcomans lie,
Round the feast on the ramparts,
That blaze to the sky.
Where the battlements reck
With the gore of the Storm;
And the spoils of the Greek
With his heart's-blood are warm;
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By the conqueror's side,
As his corpse, wan and cold,
Sits in fetters of gold!
High hour in the Palace!
There sits at the board,
With Imaum and warrior,
The King of the Sword!
And shouting they quaff
The Infidel wine,
And loudly they laugh
At the hypocrite's whine.
“Let women and boys
Shrink from Earth and its joys.
Was the grape only given
For Houris and Heaven?”
There sits at the board,
With Imaum and warrior,
The King of the Sword!
And shouting they quaff
The Infidel wine,
And loudly they laugh
At the hypocrite's whine.
“Let women and boys
Shrink from Earth and its joys.
Was the grape only given
For Houris and Heaven?”
Now the banquet is ended;
The cannon's last roar
Has welcomed the night
On the Bosphorus' shore.
Now the sweet dew of slumber
Has fallen on each eye;
And, like gems without number,
The stars fill the sky;
And no echo is heard,
But the night-chaunting bird;
And the tissues are drawn
Round thy chamber, Sultaun!
The cannon's last roar
Has welcomed the night
On the Bosphorus' shore.
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Has fallen on each eye;
And, like gems without number,
The stars fill the sky;
And no echo is heard,
But the night-chaunting bird;
And the tissues are drawn
Round thy chamber, Sultaun!
There is pomp in that chamber,
That dazzles the eye;
The ivory and amber,
The loom's Indian dye;
The diamond-starred shield,
That its keen lustre flings,
Where the golden lamp streams
On the King of Earth's Kings.
Yet, the pale, watching slave,
Who hears thy lip rave;
And hears that heart-groan,
Would shrink from thy throne!
That dazzles the eye;
The ivory and amber,
The loom's Indian dye;
The diamond-starred shield,
That its keen lustre flings,
Where the golden lamp streams
On the King of Earth's Kings.
Yet, the pale, watching slave,
Who hears thy lip rave;
And hears that heart-groan,
Would shrink from thy throne!
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Sultaun! Sultaun!
Why thus writhe in thy sleep,
Why grasp at thy dagger,
Why shudder and weep?
There are drops on thy brow,
Thick-falling as rain;
The wringings of woe
From the heart and the brain.
And thy cheek's now blood-red,
Now pale as the dead!
Art thou corpse? art thou man!
Sultaun! Sultaun!
Why thus writhe in thy sleep,
Why grasp at thy dagger,
Why shudder and weep?
There are drops on thy brow,
Thick-falling as rain;
The wringings of woe
From the heart and the brain.
And thy cheek's now blood-red,
Now pale as the dead!
Art thou corpse? art thou man!
Sultaun! Sultaun!
There are visions unsleeping,
Before that closed eye!
Hosts rushing o'er Earth,
Hosts plunged from the sky;
And Fields thick with carnage,
And Cities in flame,
And Rulers of darkness,
That Man dares not name.
The Sultaun feels a grasp,
Like a serpent's strong clasp;
And from Earth he upsprings,
In a whirlwind of wings!
Before that closed eye!
Hosts rushing o'er Earth,
Hosts plunged from the sky;
And Fields thick with carnage,
And Cities in flame,
And Rulers of darkness,
That Man dares not name.
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Like a serpent's strong clasp;
And from Earth he upsprings,
In a whirlwind of wings!
Now, he shoots through the clouds,
Till the sounds of Earth die;
Through fire, and through floods,
Till the Stars seem to fly.
Then, he shoots down again;
He is standing alone,
On a measureless plain.
And around him are strown,
Wrecks of time-mouldered bones,
Crushed under their thrones;
And the viper's dark swarms,
Twining jewels and arms!
Till the sounds of Earth die;
Through fire, and through floods,
Till the Stars seem to fly.
Then, he shoots down again;
He is standing alone,
On a measureless plain.
And around him are strown,
Wrecks of time-mouldered bones,
Crushed under their thrones;
And the viper's dark swarms,
Twining jewels and arms!
Then, like rushing of cataracts,
Uttered a Voice:—
“Wilt thou see what shall come?
Man of Fate, take thy choice.
Who the future will know,
Shall see clouds on his Dawn.”—
“Come weal or come woe,”
High spoke the Sultaun!
Then the Plain seemed to reel
With the clashing of steel,
And upburst a roar,
Like the Sea on the shore.
Uttered a Voice:—
“Wilt thou see what shall come?
Man of Fate, take thy choice.
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Shall see clouds on his Dawn.”—
“Come weal or come woe,”
High spoke the Sultaun!
Then the Plain seemed to reel
With the clashing of steel,
And upburst a roar,
Like the Sea on the shore.
“I see on the Desert
The gatherings of gloom:”—
“Those clouds are thy Moslems,
The armies of doom!”
Then, the Danube was blood,
And Buda was flame,
And Hungary's lion
Lay fettered and tame.
Then fell proud Belgrade,
Nor the torrent was stayed,
Till, Vienna, it rolled
Round thy turrets of gold!
The gatherings of gloom:”—
“Those clouds are thy Moslems,
The armies of doom!”
Then, the Danube was blood,
And Buda was flame,
And Hungary's lion
Lay fettered and tame.
Then fell proud Belgrade,
Nor the torrent was stayed,
Till, Vienna, it rolled
Round thy turrets of gold!
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Ho! Princes of Christendom
Shrink at the sound;
Ho! cling to thine altar,
Old King, triple crowned!
Ay, look from thy Vatican;
All is despair;
Thy Saints have forgot thee,
No Charlemagne is there!—
But a haze, deep and dun,
Swept over the Sun;
And the Pageant was fled,
All was still as the dead!
Shrink at the sound;
Ho! cling to thine altar,
Old King, triple crowned!
Ay, look from thy Vatican;
All is despair;
Thy Saints have forgot thee,
No Charlemagne is there!—
But a haze, deep and dun,
Swept over the Sun;
And the Pageant was fled,
All was still as the dead!
Then the Plain was a sea
Of magnificent blue;
And in pomp o'er the waters
The Crescent-flag flew.
There, the haughty Venetian
Came sullen and pale;
And on wall and on rampart
The gun poured its hail.
Where thy warriors, St. John,
Stood, like lions alone!
Till the trench was a grave
For the last of the brave!
Of magnificent blue;
And in pomp o'er the waters
The Crescent-flag flew.
There, the haughty Venetian
Came sullen and pale;
And on wall and on rampart
The gun poured its hail.
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Stood, like lions alone!
Till the trench was a grave
For the last of the brave!
Then, all passed away,
Fleet and rampart were gone;
He heard the last shout,
The trumpet's last tone.
But o'er the wild heath
Fell the rich Eastern night:
The rose gave her breath,
The Moon gave her light.
'Twas the Bosphorus' stream
That reflected her gleam;
And the turrets that shone
In that light were His own!
Fleet and rampart were gone;
He heard the last shout,
The trumpet's last tone.
But o'er the wild heath
Fell the rich Eastern night:
The rose gave her breath,
The Moon gave her light.
'Twas the Bosphorus' stream
That reflected her gleam;
And the turrets that shone
In that light were His own!
“Sultaun! Sultaun!
Now look on thy shame;”
In a silken Kiosk
Lay a vice-decayed frame.
And before his faint gaze,
To voice and to string,
Danced his soft Odalisques,
Like birds on the wing.
There was mirth mixed with madness,
Strange revel, strange sadness;
The bowstring and bowl,
The sense and the soul!
Now look on thy shame;”
In a silken Kiosk
Lay a vice-decayed frame.
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To voice and to string,
Danced his soft Odalisques,
Like birds on the wing.
There was mirth mixed with madness,
Strange revel, strange sadness;
The bowstring and bowl,
The sense and the soul!
Where are now his old warriors?
All tombed in their mail:
Where his Banner of Glory?
Let none tell the tale.
But the gilded caique
Floated smooth as a dove;
And the song of the minstrel
Was Beauty and Love!
The Sultaun, with a groan,
Saw the son of his throne
Slave to Woman and Wine:
Well he knew the dark Sign.
All tombed in their mail:
Where his Banner of Glory?
Let none tell the tale.
But the gilded caique
Floated smooth as a dove;
And the song of the minstrel
Was Beauty and Love!
The Sultaun, with a groan,
Saw the son of his throne
Slave to Woman and Wine:
Well he knew the dark Sign.
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But vengeance was nigh,
On the air burst a yell;
And the cup from the grasp
Of the reveller fell.
Who rush through the chambers
With hourra and drum?
The Janizar thousands,
The blood-drinkers come!
Then, a thrust of the lance,
And a wild, dying glance,
And a heart-gush of gore,
And all's hushed—and all's o'er.
On the air burst a yell;
And the cup from the grasp
Of the reveller fell.
Who rush through the chambers
With hourra and drum?
The Janizar thousands,
The blood-drinkers come!
Then, a thrust of the lance,
And a wild, dying glance,
And a heart-gush of gore,
And all's hushed—and all's o'er.
Then again came thick darkness,
Till dawned a new day;
But no glory of thine
Was awaked by the ray.
Thy kingdoms, like gems
From thy turban, were torn;
The cusps from the horns
Of the Crescent were shorn.
The Muscovite roar
Echoed round thy pale shore;
And the brand seemed to glow
O'er thy City of woe!
Till dawned a new day;
But no glory of thine
Was awaked by the ray.
Thy kingdoms, like gems
From thy turban, were torn;
The cusps from the horns
Of the Crescent were shorn.
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Echoed round thy pale shore;
And the brand seemed to glow
O'er thy City of woe!
Ay, mightiest of conquerors!
Well may'st thou weep,
And struggle to rend
The dark fetters of sleep.
Before thee stands Azrael,
The King of the Tomb;
At his call rise the Spirits
Of War on the gloom.
From South and from North
Come the torturers forth;
Till the flags of the world
Round Stamboul are unfurled!
Well may'st thou weep,
And struggle to rend
The dark fetters of sleep.
Before thee stands Azrael,
The King of the Tomb;
At his call rise the Spirits
Of War on the gloom.
From South and from North
Come the torturers forth;
Till the flags of the world
Round Stamboul are unfurled!
Why pauses the sword,
That thirsts in the hand?
Does the thunder-burst wait,
But the final command!
It shall rush like a deluge,
The terrible birth
Of the vengeance of Heaven,
And madness of earth.
When Sovereign and slave
Shall be foam on its wave;
Thy kingdom is gone—
Sultaun! Sultaun
That thirsts in the hand?
Does the thunder-burst wait,
But the final command!
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The terrible birth
Of the vengeance of Heaven,
And madness of earth.
When Sovereign and slave
Shall be foam on its wave;
Thy kingdom is gone—
Sultaun! Sultaun
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THE EMPEROR AND THE RABBI.
“Old Rabbi, what tales dost thou pour in mine ear,
What visions of glory, what phantoms of fear.”
Of a God, all the Gods of the Romans above,
A mightier than Mars, a more ancient than Jove.
What visions of glory, what phantoms of fear.”
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A mightier than Mars, a more ancient than Jove.
“Let me see but his splendours, I then shall believe.
'Tis the senses alone that can never deceive.
But show me your Idol, if earth be his shrine,
And your Israelite God shall, old dreamer, be mine!”
'Tis the senses alone that can never deceive.
But show me your Idol, if earth be his shrine,
And your Israelite God shall, old dreamer, be mine!”
It was Trajan that spoke, and the stoical sneer
Still played on his features, sublime and severe,
For, round the wide world, that stooped to his throne,
He knew but one God, and himself was that one!
Still played on his features, sublime and severe,
For, round the wide world, that stooped to his throne,
He knew but one God, and himself was that one!
“The God of our forefathers,” low bowed the Seer,
Is unseen by the eye, is unheard by the ear;
He is Spirit, and knows not the body's dark chain;
Immortal His nature, eternal His reign.
Is unseen by the eye, is unheard by the ear;
He is Spirit, and knows not the body's dark chain;
Immortal His nature, eternal His reign.
“He is seen in His power, when the storm is abroad;
In His justice, when guilt by His thunders is awed;
In His mercy, when mountain and valley and plain
Rejoice in His sunshine, and smile in His rain.”
In His justice, when guilt by His thunders is awed;
In His mercy, when mountain and valley and plain
Rejoice in His sunshine, and smile in His rain.”
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“Those are dreams,” said the monarch, “wild fancies of old;
But, what God can I worship, when none I behold?
Can I kneel to the lightning, or bow to the wind?
Can I worship the shape, that but lives in the mind?”
But, what God can I worship, when none I behold?
Can I kneel to the lightning, or bow to the wind?
Can I worship the shape, that but lives in the mind?”
“I shall show thee the herald He sends from His throne.”
Through the halls of the palace the Rabbi led on,
Till above them was spread but the sky's sapphire dome,
And, like surges of splendour, beneath them lay Rome;
Through the halls of the palace the Rabbi led on,
Till above them was spread but the sky's sapphire dome,
And, like surges of splendour, beneath them lay Rome;
And towering o'er all, in the glow of the hour,
The Capitol shone, Earth's high centre of power:
A thousand years glorious, yet still in its prime;
A thousand years more, to be conqueror of Time.
The Capitol shone, Earth's high centre of power:
A thousand years glorious, yet still in its prime;
A thousand years more, to be conqueror of Time.
But the West was now purple, the eve was begun;
Like a monarch at rest, on the hills lay the sun;
Above him the clouds their rich canopy rolled,
With pillars of diamond, and curtains of gold.
Like a monarch at rest, on the hills lay the sun;
Above him the clouds their rich canopy rolled,
With pillars of diamond, and curtains of gold.
The Rabbi's proud gesture was turned to the orb:
“O King! let that glory thy worship absorb!”—
“What, worship that sun, and be blind by the gaze;
No eye but the eagle's could look on that blaze.”—
“O King! let that glory thy worship absorb!”—
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No eye but the eagle's could look on that blaze.”—
“Ho! Emperor of Earth, if it dazzles thine eye
To look on that orb, as it sinks from the sky,”
Cried the Rabbi, “what mortal could dare but to see
The Sovereign of him, and the Sovereign of thee!”
To look on that orb, as it sinks from the sky,”
Cried the Rabbi, “what mortal could dare but to see
The Sovereign of him, and the Sovereign of thee!”
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REMEMBRANCE.
“If I forget Thee, let my right hand forget her cunning.”—
Psalm CXXXVII.
Shall mortals murmur at the grave?
I weep, I worship, and obey!
When all a Father's mercy gave,
A Father's wisdom takes away.
Still live the fine, fond ties that bind
The heart to heart, the mind to mind.
I weep, I worship, and obey!
When all a Father's mercy gave,
A Father's wisdom takes away.
Still live the fine, fond ties that bind
The heart to heart, the mind to mind.
The thoughts that fill the eyes with tears,
The hours of consecrated love,
The tried companionship of years,
The hope, again to meet above;
Can those be only things of air?
To doubt—were doubly anguish there.
The hours of consecrated love,
The tried companionship of years,
The hope, again to meet above;
Can those be only things of air?
To doubt—were doubly anguish there.
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If Memory, busy Memory,
Still gives the accents to our ear;
Still brings the form before our eye,
All that we loved to see, and hear—
The look, the voice, the step, so known,
We scarcely can believe them—gone!
Still gives the accents to our ear;
Still brings the form before our eye,
All that we loved to see, and hear—
The look, the voice, the step, so known,
We scarcely can believe them—gone!
The fond contrivances to please;
The Art, divested of all art,
To set the anxious mind at ease;
The heroism of the heart;
The sunshine of life's wintry day:
Those cannot, cannot pass away!
The Art, divested of all art,
To set the anxious mind at ease;
The heroism of the heart;
The sunshine of life's wintry day:
Those cannot, cannot pass away!
If Heaven has glorious mysteries,
Truths, triumphs, only known above,
Too dazzling for our mortal eyes,
The mighty miracles of Love!
Shall the pure Spirit only soar,
(All love on earth) to love no more?
Truths, triumphs, only known above,
Too dazzling for our mortal eyes,
The mighty miracles of Love!
Shall the pure Spirit only soar,
(All love on earth) to love no more?
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If Friendship, beyond Mount or Main,
Still treasures all that once was dear,
And those it ne'er may see again,
Awake the wish, awake the tear.
What art thou, dread Eternity,
But loftier Mount, and broader Sea!
Still treasures all that once was dear,
And those it ne'er may see again,
Awake the wish, awake the tear.
What art thou, dread Eternity,
But loftier Mount, and broader Sea!
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THE WANDERINGS OF IO.
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IO SOLICITS THE GUIDANCE OF PROMETHEUS.
Prometheus
“Go, young beauty, loved of Jove,
Doomed the weary world to rove;
Mother of a race of Kings,
Yet to feel life's sharpest stings.
Go not where the Seythian wain
Toils along the endless plain,
And the clouded morning light
Seems but sister of the night.
Go not where the furnace-gleam,
Shining on the midnight stream,
Down its mountain channels rolled,
Like a cataract of gold,
Shows where in their forests freeze,
Sons of steel, the Chalybes.
Go not where Araxis pours,
Roaring as the lion roars,
Flashing round my mountain-chain,
Like the lion's tossing mane;
Nor with fainting footsteps climb,
Caucasus, thy heights sublime,
Nature's dreariest solitude,
Soil of sorrow, soil of blood,
When the restless thunder fills
All the star-aspiring hills,
Blinding eye, and rending ear,
Man's first birthplace, Man's last bier!
“Io, tempt the storm no more,
But along the gentle shore,
Where Thermodon's waters sleep,
Where the roses ever weep,
Where the golden helm and lance,
In the southern sunbeam glance,
And the Amazonian targe,
Glitters in the sportive charge;
Life one endless, joyous day,
Wanderer, take thy trembling way.
Doomed the weary world to rove;
Mother of a race of Kings,
Yet to feel life's sharpest stings.
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Toils along the endless plain,
And the clouded morning light
Seems but sister of the night.
Go not where the furnace-gleam,
Shining on the midnight stream,
Down its mountain channels rolled,
Like a cataract of gold,
Shows where in their forests freeze,
Sons of steel, the Chalybes.
Go not where Araxis pours,
Roaring as the lion roars,
Flashing round my mountain-chain,
Like the lion's tossing mane;
Nor with fainting footsteps climb,
Caucasus, thy heights sublime,
Nature's dreariest solitude,
Soil of sorrow, soil of blood,
When the restless thunder fills
All the star-aspiring hills,
Blinding eye, and rending ear,
Man's first birthplace, Man's last bier!
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But along the gentle shore,
Where Thermodon's waters sleep,
Where the roses ever weep,
Where the golden helm and lance,
In the southern sunbeam glance,
And the Amazonian targe,
Glitters in the sportive charge;
Life one endless, joyous day,
Wanderer, take thy trembling way.
“But, again thy woes must wake!
By the vast Cimmerian Lake,
Where no Zephyrs fan the wave,
Stagnant, silent as the Grave,
Vapour-shrouded, dark, and deep,
Emblem of eternal sleep,
Must thy wayward footsteps glide
Its funereal breast beside,
Till the pale Mæotic shore,
Sees thy day of trial o'er,
Giving to its Strait thy name,
Its title to immortal fame.
By the vast Cimmerian Lake,
Where no Zephyrs fan the wave,
Stagnant, silent as the Grave,
Vapour-shrouded, dark, and deep,
Emblem of eternal sleep,
Must thy wayward footsteps glide
Its funereal breast beside,
Till the pale Mæotic shore,
Sees thy day of trial o'er,
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Its title to immortal fame.
“Yet, thy task must still be done!
Thou must go, and go alone,
To the Caverns, deep and drear,
Where the sister-shapes of fear,
Phorcys' daughters, hoar with age,
In their adamantine cage,
Triple-formed, sit side by side,
By the hand of Nature tied.
With one eye, one mouth, one heart,
Plying still their wondrous art,
All their mystery and might,
Veiled in one eternal night.
Round their shrine no censers gleam,
Sparkles there no starry beam,
Blaze no purple lights of morn,
Shines no evening lunar horn,
Well for mortals, that no eye,
Can their dark dominion spy.
“Who, of mortal born could bear,
All the mystic terrors there!
Who could see the Gorgons grim,
With the scale-enveloped limb;
With the poison-darting fang,
Yet not feel the dying pang!
Who could see the Gryphon brood,
Reeking from their feast of blood,
Riding on the sulphurous air,
With their living viper-hair;
Or the countless spectral hosts,
Hovering on the dismal coasts
Of the flaming Phlegethon,
With eternal shriek and moan!
But must long to hide the head,
In the darkness of the dead.
Thou must go, and go alone,
To the Caverns, deep and drear,
Where the sister-shapes of fear,
Phorcys' daughters, hoar with age,
In their adamantine cage,
Triple-formed, sit side by side,
By the hand of Nature tied.
With one eye, one mouth, one heart,
Plying still their wondrous art,
All their mystery and might,
Veiled in one eternal night.
Round their shrine no censers gleam,
Sparkles there no starry beam,
Blaze no purple lights of morn,
Shines no evening lunar horn,
Well for mortals, that no eye,
Can their dark dominion spy.
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All the mystic terrors there!
Who could see the Gorgons grim,
With the scale-enveloped limb;
With the poison-darting fang,
Yet not feel the dying pang!
Who could see the Gryphon brood,
Reeking from their feast of blood,
Riding on the sulphurous air,
With their living viper-hair;
Or the countless spectral hosts,
Hovering on the dismal coasts
Of the flaming Phlegethon,
With eternal shriek and moan!
But must long to hide the head,
In the darkness of the dead.
“Go, but dread the Arimasp,
Deadlier than the flying asp,
On their steeds of blasting light,
Flashing through the Lybian night;
With their one, fire-darting eye,
Like a meteor rushing by,
And their tongues of forky fire,
Uttering words of Demon ire.
Things of anguish, things of fear,
Worse than death, to see, or hear!
Deadlier than the flying asp,
On their steeds of blasting light,
Flashing through the Lybian night;
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Like a meteor rushing by,
And their tongues of forky fire,
Uttering words of Demon ire.
Things of anguish, things of fear,
Worse than death, to see, or hear!
“Listen, Princess, on thine eyes,
Wonders shall on wonders rise;
To the Ethiop mountains borne,
Where no mortal sorrows mourn;
Where the living waters run
From the fountains of the Sun;
Where, with flower-enwreathen hands,
Nigris, on thy golden sands,
To the forest's harmony
Dance the Daughters of the Sky;
And the Seasons fold their wing,
Nature, one eternal Spring!
Wonders shall on wonders rise;
To the Ethiop mountains borne,
Where no mortal sorrows mourn;
Where the living waters run
From the fountains of the Sun;
Where, with flower-enwreathen hands,
Nigris, on thy golden sands,
To the forest's harmony
Dance the Daughters of the Sky;
And the Seasons fold their wing,
Nature, one eternal Spring!
“Still, thou weary, woe-worn one,
Fate's high will must all be done;
Next, thy foot must tread the Sand,
Guarding the time-honoured land,
Where the temple-crested Nile
Glows beneath the Morning's smile,
Glows beneath the hues of Even,
Mirror of Man's brightest Heaven.
There, shall Ammon's oracle
All thy wounded spirit heal!
Then the Fates no more shall frown,
Then thy brow shall wear a Crown,
Oe'r thee joy shall wave her wings,
Daughter, Mother, Bride of Kings;
Till the living world shall gaze,
On thy Altar's glorious blaze!”
Fate's high will must all be done;
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Guarding the time-honoured land,
Where the temple-crested Nile
Glows beneath the Morning's smile,
Glows beneath the hues of Even,
Mirror of Man's brightest Heaven.
There, shall Ammon's oracle
All thy wounded spirit heal!
Then the Fates no more shall frown,
Then thy brow shall wear a Crown,
Oe'r thee joy shall wave her wings,
Daughter, Mother, Bride of Kings;
Till the living world shall gaze,
On thy Altar's glorious blaze!”
Io was the mother of a long line of Mythological heroes and heroines: Epaphus, Danaus, Acrisius, Hypermnestra, Prœtus, Danae, Perseus, Alcmena, Hercules, & c.
196
ALGIERS.
202
Algiers! wild Algiers!
There are sounds through the night,
Coming thick on the gale,
Sounds of battle and flight;
And the spurring of squadrons,
The roll of the wain,
The beacon's broad blaze
On the far mountain-chain,
And the desert-horn's howl,
Like the wolf in his prowl;
And the flash of the spear,
Tell the Berber is there.
There are sounds through the night,
Coming thick on the gale,
Sounds of battle and flight;
And the spurring of squadrons,
The roll of the wain,
The beacon's broad blaze
On the far mountain-chain,
And the desert-horn's howl,
Like the wolf in his prowl;
And the flash of the spear,
Tell the Berber is there.
203
The tempest is coming,
It swells from the South—
The Desert's bold riders,
Age, manhood, and youth!
Their steeds are like wind,
And their frames are like fire,
That wounds cannot tame,
That toil cannot tire.
On they burst like a flood,
Till the Desert drinks blood,
Thick as night-falling dew;
“Allah hu! Allah hu!”
It swells from the South—
The Desert's bold riders,
Age, manhood, and youth!
Their steeds are like wind,
And their frames are like fire,
That wounds cannot tame,
That toil cannot tire.
On they burst like a flood,
Till the Desert drinks blood,
Thick as night-falling dew;
“Allah hu! Allah hu!”
The Frenchmen are rushing
To gate and to wall;
But, the Moor is awake
In his gold-tissued hall.
He sharpens the dagger,
And loads the carbine,
And oft looks to the East,
For the morning to shine!
And from rampart and roof
Crowds are gazing aloof;
And their gestures, though dumb,
Tell, “the Emir is come!”
To gate and to wall;
But, the Moor is awake
In his gold-tissued hall.
He sharpens the dagger,
And loads the carbine,
And oft looks to the East,
For the morning to shine!
204
Crowds are gazing aloof;
And their gestures, though dumb,
Tell, “the Emir is come!”
Ay, follow the Berber
Through hill and through vale;
He's the falcon, and swift
As its wing on the gale.
Ay, scorch through the day,
And freeze through the night;
He's the panther, one bound,
And he's gone from your sight;
But death's in his tramp,
As he roams round your camp;
One grasp, and one roar,
And you sleep in your gore.
Through hill and through vale;
He's the falcon, and swift
As its wing on the gale.
Ay, scorch through the day,
And freeze through the night;
He's the panther, one bound,
And he's gone from your sight;
But death's in his tramp,
As he roams round your camp;
One grasp, and one roar,
And you sleep in your gore.
'Tis the blue depth of midnight;
The moon is above,
Shedding silver in showers
On mosque and on grove;
And the sense is opprest
With the sweetness of night.
'Tis an hour to be blest,
All fragrance and light;
But the volley's quick peal,
And the clashing of steel,
And the cannon's deep boom,
There, are gorging the tomb!
The moon is above,
Shedding silver in showers
On mosque and on grove;
205
With the sweetness of night.
'Tis an hour to be blest,
All fragrance and light;
But the volley's quick peal,
And the clashing of steel,
And the cannon's deep boom,
There, are gorging the tomb!
There is war on the hill,
In the rocky ravine,
On the corn-covered plain,
In the forest's thick screen.
And the roaring of battle
Still swells through the night;
But at Morning the vultures
Will stoop from their flight,
Where the feast has been laid,
By bayonet and blade;
And unscared they may wreak
The talon and beak!
In the rocky ravine,
On the corn-covered plain,
In the forest's thick screen.
And the roaring of battle
Still swells through the night;
But at Morning the vultures
Will stoop from their flight,
Where the feast has been laid,
By bayonet and blade;
And unscared they may wreak
The talon and beak!
206
Shall the plague-spot still blacken
On each and on all?
Where art thou, old Bourbon?
Europe scoffed at thy fall;
Where thy fierce “thirty thousand,”
Napoleon's old “braves?”
Like thee, they are corpses;
Algiers gave them graves!
Where the victor Bourmont?
He has followed thy throne.
Where thy councillors? Fled,
In the dungeon, or dead!
On each and on all?
Where art thou, old Bourbon?
Europe scoffed at thy fall;
Where thy fierce “thirty thousand,”
Napoleon's old “braves?”
Like thee, they are corpses;
Algiers gave them graves!
Where the victor Bourmont?
He has followed thy throne.
Where thy councillors? Fled,
In the dungeon, or dead!
Yet, France, though the Berber
Were crushed by thy heel;
In his heart he has hate,
In his hand he has steel.
His peace will be war!
Thou shalt slay, and be slain!
The length of thy sabre,
The breadth of thy reign!
And the world shall yet ring
With the fall of a King,
Flung from country and throne;
Smote, like thee, old Bourbon!
Were crushed by thy heel;
In his heart he has hate,
In his hand he has steel.
His peace will be war!
Thou shalt slay, and be slain!
The length of thy sabre,
The breadth of thy reign!
207
With the fall of a King,
Flung from country and throne;
Smote, like thee, old Bourbon!
But, France, must the Charnel
Still gape for the dead?
Must the jackal and wolf
Still on carnage be fed?
Thy treasure, and blood,
Nay, thy valour, in vain,
Thy conquest—but dust,
To be conquered again.
Still, ploughing the sand;
Still, sabre in hand!
Thou, a kingdom of biers,
Algiers, wild Algiers!
Still gape for the dead?
Must the jackal and wolf
Still on carnage be fed?
Thy treasure, and blood,
Nay, thy valour, in vain,
Thy conquest—but dust,
To be conquered again.
Still, ploughing the sand;
Still, sabre in hand!
Thou, a kingdom of biers,
Algiers, wild Algiers!
208
SORROW.
Slight comes the pang, slight passes by,
That melts itself in tears;
The stricken spirit that can sigh,
No mortal arrow bears.
When Fate has snapped the heart's true ties,
It scorns the help of tears and sighs.
That melts itself in tears;
The stricken spirit that can sigh,
No mortal arrow bears.
When Fate has snapped the heart's true ties,
It scorns the help of tears and sighs.
Or, if it still its pillow steeps,
It tries the world to wile;
For night, its sacred sorrow keeps,
For day, resumes the smile.
Till comes the hour—to meet above,
And thus it is, with buried Love!
It tries the world to wile;
For night, its sacred sorrow keeps,
For day, resumes the smile.
Till comes the hour—to meet above,
And thus it is, with buried Love!
209
THE FURIES.
214
Eumenides! ye throned on flame!
What tongue dares name your darker name?
Sisters, and Sovereigns, of the Fates,
Who sit by Hell's eternal gates;
Where Cerberus, with sleepless howl,
Startles the demons, fierce and foul;
And sounds of weeping and of wail
For ever on the darkness sail!
I see your grandeur, drear and dim,
The gold-crowned brow, the giant limb,
The lurid, mighty eyes, whose gaze
Throws, even round Hell, a broader blaze;
Guarded by demigods of Earth,
The thunder-shattered Titan's birth,
That float around your cloudy throne,
Glistening like serpents—seen, and gone.
What tongue dares name your darker name?
Sisters, and Sovereigns, of the Fates,
Who sit by Hell's eternal gates;
Where Cerberus, with sleepless howl,
Startles the demons, fierce and foul;
And sounds of weeping and of wail
For ever on the darkness sail!
I see your grandeur, drear and dim,
The gold-crowned brow, the giant limb,
The lurid, mighty eyes, whose gaze
Throws, even round Hell, a broader blaze;
Guarded by demigods of Earth,
The thunder-shattered Titan's birth,
That float around your cloudy throne,
Glistening like serpents—seen, and gone.
Ye tamers of all mortal pride,
Ye punishers of parricide,
Avengers of man's broken vows,
The tyrant husband, blood-stained spouse;
The guilt triumphant, yet untold;
The base, in soul already sold,
When traitors play the patriot's part,
(The last corruption of the heart),
And Faction coils its serpent-rings
Round the unguarded hours of Kings.
Eumenides! what kingdom stands,
When waves the sceptre in your hands?
Ye punishers of parricide,
Avengers of man's broken vows,
The tyrant husband, blood-stained spouse;
215
The base, in soul already sold,
When traitors play the patriot's part,
(The last corruption of the heart),
And Faction coils its serpent-rings
Round the unguarded hours of Kings.
Eumenides! what kingdom stands,
When waves the sceptre in your hands?
Sepulchral Goddesses! your power
Awakes the conscience-stricken hour!
Nor time, nor distance, day nor night,
Can screen the villain from your sight;
Sweeps he along the stormy surge,
Above him hangs your scorpion-scourge;
Takes he the desert-eagle's wing,
There your swift arrows fix their sting;
Flies he to Ocean's farthest shore,
You track him by his steps of gore;
He sees you on the whirlwind ride,
And wishes he at once had died!
Awakes the conscience-stricken hour!
Nor time, nor distance, day nor night,
Can screen the villain from your sight;
Sweeps he along the stormy surge,
Above him hangs your scorpion-scourge;
Takes he the desert-eagle's wing,
There your swift arrows fix their sting;
Flies he to Ocean's farthest shore,
You track him by his steps of gore;
He sees you on the whirlwind ride,
And wishes he at once had died!
216
But, when the darker vengeance still
For darker guilt, the world must thrill;
When crime, too deep to be forgiven,
Wakes the reluctant wrath of Heaven;
You leave the villain to his wiles,
Till the false world around him smiles;
All conscience quelled, all fear defied,
Life, to his glance, a golden tide;
All murmurs hushed, all storms o'erblown;
The game of fortune all his own!
Then, in some high-wrought, crowning hour,
Some day of pride, some feast of power,
Some hour of double life—and death!
Then, breathe your lips their fiery breath;
Your Sceptre strikes one viewless blow,
The palace and its lord are low!
A blow that seems the land to stun,
All gazing on the wretch undone;
A thunderbolt of ruin hurled,
A Moral to the startled World!
Awhile your giant forms are seen
The tempest-laden clouds between;
Each drinking, with earth-bended ear,
The curses round the hurried bier.
Then, vanished from the eyes of men,
Ye sit at Hell's dark gates again!
For darker guilt, the world must thrill;
When crime, too deep to be forgiven,
Wakes the reluctant wrath of Heaven;
You leave the villain to his wiles,
Till the false world around him smiles;
All conscience quelled, all fear defied,
Life, to his glance, a golden tide;
All murmurs hushed, all storms o'erblown;
The game of fortune all his own!
Then, in some high-wrought, crowning hour,
Some day of pride, some feast of power,
Some hour of double life—and death!
Then, breathe your lips their fiery breath;
Your Sceptre strikes one viewless blow,
The palace and its lord are low!
A blow that seems the land to stun,
All gazing on the wretch undone;
A thunderbolt of ruin hurled,
A Moral to the startled World!
217
The tempest-laden clouds between;
Each drinking, with earth-bended ear,
The curses round the hurried bier.
Then, vanished from the eyes of men,
Ye sit at Hell's dark gates again!
218
EPITAPH FOR PETRARCH.
Here, let the Poet fix his burning eyes;Here, all that Death can claim of Petrarch, lies!
On this proud Shrine hangs no sepulchral gloom;
He sleeps within the trophy, not the tomb!
He loved, was loved: and Passion's vestal fire
Shot loftier splendours round his golden Lyre;
And still the strings the thrilling tones prolong,
And the witched World still loves the immortal song.
THE END.
| Scenes from Scripture with Other Poems | |