 | Poems |  |
1
THE TIMES:
A REVERIE.
1815.
3
1. PART FIRST.
What gentle murmur hath disturb'd the air?
Sure I have felt upon my cheek a breath,
Silent, and soft, as from an angel's wing!—
They come—in midnight visitings they come—
Those forms, that hover o'er the poet's couch,
What time he gazes with most earnest eye,
And long-suspended breath, lest from his view
The imag'd objects of idolatry
Should fade! I heard—even now I hear—a voice,
Low, yet most clear; I felt—even now I feel—
Mysterious breathings, and the soul obeys
In unresisting motion, when the Power
Of song exerts her holy influence!
Hast thou beheld the obedient march of waves,
The appointed flow, the regulated fall,
The rise, and lapse alternate? even as soon
Shall they rebel against the silent maid,
Who walks in joy among the company
Of stars, and casts her chain upon the deep,
As poet struggle with the awful Power,
That wakes the slumbering spirit into song;
As Man forbid the soul to undulate
Through all its depths, what time the breath of heaven
Moves o'er the darkness:—
Sure I have felt upon my cheek a breath,
Silent, and soft, as from an angel's wing!—
They come—in midnight visitings they come—
Those forms, that hover o'er the poet's couch,
What time he gazes with most earnest eye,
And long-suspended breath, lest from his view
The imag'd objects of idolatry
Should fade! I heard—even now I hear—a voice,
Low, yet most clear; I felt—even now I feel—
Mysterious breathings, and the soul obeys
In unresisting motion, when the Power
Of song exerts her holy influence!
4
The appointed flow, the regulated fall,
The rise, and lapse alternate? even as soon
Shall they rebel against the silent maid,
Who walks in joy among the company
Of stars, and casts her chain upon the deep,
As poet struggle with the awful Power,
That wakes the slumbering spirit into song;
As Man forbid the soul to undulate
Through all its depths, what time the breath of heaven
Moves o'er the darkness:—
Spoke there not a voice,
The present voice of God?—“Let there be light,”
It said, and light was over air and earth,
And with its glory garmented the deep:—
Even such a voice was heard on Chebar's banks,
Loud as the rushing of a thousand streams,
When in the shadow of the Deity
The Prophet sate, or hung 'mid earth and heaven,
And, in the fearful vision, saw display'd
The burning glory of the living God!
And, 'tis my faith, a portion of that power,
A ray of that divinest light, a breath
Of that eternal spirit, hath been given,
In later days to strengthen and to cheer,
To govern and to guide those favour'd men,
Whose lips are destin'd to proclaim to Earth
The ways of God, his providence, his power.
The present voice of God?—“Let there be light,”
It said, and light was over air and earth,
And with its glory garmented the deep:—
Even such a voice was heard on Chebar's banks,
Loud as the rushing of a thousand streams,
When in the shadow of the Deity
The Prophet sate, or hung 'mid earth and heaven,
And, in the fearful vision, saw display'd
5
And, 'tis my faith, a portion of that power,
A ray of that divinest light, a breath
Of that eternal spirit, hath been given,
In later days to strengthen and to cheer,
To govern and to guide those favour'd men,
Whose lips are destin'd to proclaim to Earth
The ways of God, his providence, his power.
Is more appropriate. Not to me was given
Ethereal impulse; yet the ardent mind
Brooks not inglorious silence! yet my cares
Are often solac'd by some lighter muse!
When sorrow prest me, when the heavy hand
Of sickness weigh'd on the dejected mind,
And cursed me in the merry time of youth
With the dim eye, and feeble foot of age;
When Hope's reviving glow with health return'd,
Some spirit still was near to whisper song,
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Of pain, to reconcile the soul to death,
And, angel-like, illumes my brighter hours.
What hour more fitting for her visitations,
Than when the silence of the night hath lull'd
The spirit?—when the stir of intercourse,
The fretting bustle, all that jarring clash'd
To drown the music of the mind, hath ceas'd?
What scene more suited to her agency
Canst thou conceive?—Round my broad window's arch
The ivy's wreaths are wound, and through the frame
A few short shoots have found unbidden way;
The woodbine's pillar'd blossom in the breeze
Moves slowly, and upon the moonlight ground
The shadow casts an ever-varying stain;—
The sound of waters, too, is here,—that stream,
Whose banks I love to call the poet's haunt,
Soothes with its ceaseless murmur,—opposite
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Flutter most musical;—the moonshine there
Plays strange vagaries,—now a flood of light
Spreads like a sheet of snow along the plain,—
Now all is darkness, save that through the boughs
On the green circle, like a summer shower
Slow falling from unagitated leaves,
Some glancing drops of light are chequering still;—
Now is the ivy colour'd with the beams,—
Now on my floor they lie in quietness,—
Now float with mazy flow most restlessly,
(At rest, or quivering, still how beautiful!)
Like Fancy sporting with the poet's soul!
They come—in midnight visitings they come—
But not such forms as in the calm of night
Seek the soft twilight of the gentle moon!—
What form is yonder?—never hath the dream
Of night been bodied in a wilder shape!
Stern is his brow, and gloomy, and his height
Is as the shadow on the burial ground,
When the moon's light upon some sculptur'd form
In cold reflection lies!—A heavy cloud,
And red, as though from steaming vales of blood
Exhal'd, o'ershades him with its canopy!
Whither, O Ruin! whither would'st thou haste?
Why dost thou wander from the wilderness
Where Tadmor wastes away? Methought thine eye,
Delighted, linger'd on the mouldering wall,
And watch'd in rapture each decaying trace
That ceas'd to speak of man! Methought thy voice
Was the low echo, that, within the tomb,
Disturbs the grave-worm, when the rotting plank
From the loose coffin drops upon the earth,—
A sound that, to the meditative man,
Would waken no unholy melancholy.
But now a restless fire hath lit thine eye,—
But now thy voice is dreary as the sound
That wakes the wounded warrior from his trance,
When the black vulture from her heavy wing
Flaps on his brow the drops of stiffening gore,
Or the steed dying falls a weary weight
On his bruised body:—whither wouldst thou lead,
Dark Ruin, whither? say, wilt thou to-night
Wander to see the dews of heaven shine chill
On those insensate forms, that, long expos'd,
Long rotting in the summer's sultry sun,
Breath'd pestilence?—the supple limbs of youth,
And manhood's sinewy strength, and rigid age,
Together lie:—the boy, whose hands with blood
Were never stain'd before, upon whose lip
The mother's kiss was ominously prest;—
The man, alive to every tenderest thought,
Who cherish'd every fire-side charity;—
And he, who, bending with the weight of years,
Felt the sword heavy in his straining hand,
Who had outliv'd the social sympathies
That link us to our kind—together here,
As in the cemetery's bourne they lie—
The patriot and the murderer side by side
Sleep silent,—he, who shrunk at every sound,
Who throbb'd in terror for a worthless life,
Lies like a brother with the hopeless man,
Who desperately dar'd in scorn of death:—
The brave man in convulsing agony
Hath grasp'd, and holds in death the hireling's hand—
—He who was wont to calculate each chance,
To measure out each probability,
Behold him now extended on the earth,
Near that robuster frame, whose tenant soul
Flash'd rapid in the energetic eye,
Whose thoughts were scarce imagin'd, ere they sprang
Forth-shap'd in instant action:—here lies one,
Whose soul was vex'd by Passion's every gust,
And like the oak-leaf trembled—gaze again,
Look on the mutilated hand, that still
Clings to the sword unconscious;—milder man
Than he, whose mutilated hand lies there,
Breathes not;—each passion that rebell'd was hush'd;
So placid was his brow, so mild his eye,
It seem'd no power could break the quiet there,
Till, in the agony of tenderness,
As his wife hung upon his bending neck,
And lengthen'd out in sobs that last embrace,
He could not look upon her countenance,
And the big tear he struggled to repress
Fell on the rosy infant's cheek, who smil'd
At the unusual plume, and with stretch'd hand
Half drew the shining falchion from its sheath,
Then clung in mimic terror to his sire:—
—He parted:—soon the dewy breeze of morn,
The wild bird's carol and the wild flower's breath,
And the blue hills emerging from the sea
Of mists, that bath'd all night their pinnacles,
Infus'd serenity:—and, as he past
The funeral-ground, and heard the Sabbath bell
Peal its long solemn sound, be sure he thought
That with his fathers, in the family-grave,
His bones would moulder, and the thought was sweet:
Alas! ere long the soldier's hasty hand
Shall shape his burial-place, and the short prayer
Be mutter'd gracelessly above his grave!
—His was not what the great of earth would deem
A happy life; yet what is happiness,
If he who by his daily labour earns
His children's daily food, who feels no thought
Repine against his lot, if such a man
Thou deem'st not happy, what is happiness?—
His death was it not happy? though he came
The proud assertor of an evil cause,
He came self-justified:—the patriot's glow
Illum'd his cheek in life's last agony!
Fallen warrior, there are those that weep for thee!
Aye, there is one who, in her daily prayer,
Leaves not the absent soldier's name forgot—
There is an eye that, as each passing cloud
Obscures the air, will shape it to thy form;
And, when she thinks on thee, if the chill breeze
Roll the dry vine-leaf in its hurrying whirl,
Will start as though it were thy courser's hoofs:
Oh! she hath often from the cradle snatch'd
Her dreaming child, and hush'd its little plaints,
Soothing him with the tale of thy return,
And rush'd to shew the infant to his sire,
Then laid it rudely by, and bitterly
Wept when she saw another face than thine.
—This is the work of courts:—some specious word,
Some goodly sound all meaningless, some breath
Of Love or Hatred fires a clime to arms,
Patriot, or Loyalist, will rouse the son
And sire to adverse battle—Kings of Earth,
Whose is the crime if Man should abdicate
His better nature?—Statesmen, whose the crime,
If, uninstructed, he should rise in wrath,
And rush with impulse irresistible,
Right onward to your ruin and his own?—
Have you not blotted from his memory
All sense of justice, when your shameless deeds
Confus'd each rule and ordinance of right?
Have you not drunk the cup of blasphemy?
Have you not sold in impious merchandise
Slaves, and the souls of men?—
But not such forms as in the calm of night
Seek the soft twilight of the gentle moon!—
What form is yonder?—never hath the dream
Of night been bodied in a wilder shape!
Stern is his brow, and gloomy, and his height
8
When the moon's light upon some sculptur'd form
In cold reflection lies!—A heavy cloud,
And red, as though from steaming vales of blood
Exhal'd, o'ershades him with its canopy!
Whither, O Ruin! whither would'st thou haste?
Why dost thou wander from the wilderness
Where Tadmor wastes away? Methought thine eye,
Delighted, linger'd on the mouldering wall,
And watch'd in rapture each decaying trace
That ceas'd to speak of man! Methought thy voice
Was the low echo, that, within the tomb,
Disturbs the grave-worm, when the rotting plank
From the loose coffin drops upon the earth,—
A sound that, to the meditative man,
Would waken no unholy melancholy.
But now a restless fire hath lit thine eye,—
But now thy voice is dreary as the sound
That wakes the wounded warrior from his trance,
When the black vulture from her heavy wing
9
Or the steed dying falls a weary weight
On his bruised body:—whither wouldst thou lead,
Dark Ruin, whither? say, wilt thou to-night
Wander to see the dews of heaven shine chill
On those insensate forms, that, long expos'd,
Long rotting in the summer's sultry sun,
Breath'd pestilence?—the supple limbs of youth,
And manhood's sinewy strength, and rigid age,
Together lie:—the boy, whose hands with blood
Were never stain'd before, upon whose lip
The mother's kiss was ominously prest;—
The man, alive to every tenderest thought,
Who cherish'd every fire-side charity;—
And he, who, bending with the weight of years,
Felt the sword heavy in his straining hand,
Who had outliv'd the social sympathies
That link us to our kind—together here,
As in the cemetery's bourne they lie—
The patriot and the murderer side by side
10
Who throbb'd in terror for a worthless life,
Lies like a brother with the hopeless man,
Who desperately dar'd in scorn of death:—
The brave man in convulsing agony
Hath grasp'd, and holds in death the hireling's hand—
—He who was wont to calculate each chance,
To measure out each probability,
Behold him now extended on the earth,
Near that robuster frame, whose tenant soul
Flash'd rapid in the energetic eye,
Whose thoughts were scarce imagin'd, ere they sprang
Forth-shap'd in instant action:—here lies one,
Whose soul was vex'd by Passion's every gust,
And like the oak-leaf trembled—gaze again,
Look on the mutilated hand, that still
Clings to the sword unconscious;—milder man
Than he, whose mutilated hand lies there,
Breathes not;—each passion that rebell'd was hush'd;
So placid was his brow, so mild his eye,
11
Till, in the agony of tenderness,
As his wife hung upon his bending neck,
And lengthen'd out in sobs that last embrace,
He could not look upon her countenance,
And the big tear he struggled to repress
Fell on the rosy infant's cheek, who smil'd
At the unusual plume, and with stretch'd hand
Half drew the shining falchion from its sheath,
Then clung in mimic terror to his sire:—
—He parted:—soon the dewy breeze of morn,
The wild bird's carol and the wild flower's breath,
And the blue hills emerging from the sea
Of mists, that bath'd all night their pinnacles,
Infus'd serenity:—and, as he past
The funeral-ground, and heard the Sabbath bell
Peal its long solemn sound, be sure he thought
That with his fathers, in the family-grave,
His bones would moulder, and the thought was sweet:
12
Shall shape his burial-place, and the short prayer
Be mutter'd gracelessly above his grave!
—His was not what the great of earth would deem
A happy life; yet what is happiness,
If he who by his daily labour earns
His children's daily food, who feels no thought
Repine against his lot, if such a man
Thou deem'st not happy, what is happiness?—
His death was it not happy? though he came
The proud assertor of an evil cause,
He came self-justified:—the patriot's glow
Illum'd his cheek in life's last agony!
Fallen warrior, there are those that weep for thee!
Aye, there is one who, in her daily prayer,
Leaves not the absent soldier's name forgot—
There is an eye that, as each passing cloud
Obscures the air, will shape it to thy form;
And, when she thinks on thee, if the chill breeze
Roll the dry vine-leaf in its hurrying whirl,
13
Oh! she hath often from the cradle snatch'd
Her dreaming child, and hush'd its little plaints,
Soothing him with the tale of thy return,
And rush'd to shew the infant to his sire,
Then laid it rudely by, and bitterly
Wept when she saw another face than thine.
—This is the work of courts:—some specious word,
Some goodly sound all meaningless, some breath
Of Love or Hatred fires a clime to arms,
Patriot, or Loyalist, will rouse the son
And sire to adverse battle—Kings of Earth,
Whose is the crime if Man should abdicate
His better nature?—Statesmen, whose the crime,
If, uninstructed, he should rise in wrath,
And rush with impulse irresistible,
Right onward to your ruin and his own?—
Have you not blotted from his memory
All sense of justice, when your shameless deeds
Confus'd each rule and ordinance of right?
14
Have you not sold in impious merchandise
Slaves, and the souls of men?—
Thou wert alone,
Thou, England, like some hill, whose lofty brows
Retain at night, and joyously effuse
The light, that loves to lie and linger there:—
Only with thee Religion found a home,
Only with thee did Liberty repose!
This is a day of pride—ye robe yourselves,
Thou, England, like some hill, whose lofty brows
Retain at night, and joyously effuse
The light, that loves to lie and linger there:—
Only with thee Religion found a home,
Only with thee did Liberty repose!
Monarchs of Earth, with glory—Royalty
This day hangs lightly on you—bring the harp,—
Where is the timbrel?—where the merry voice
Of music? where the sprightly girl of France
To chaunt her Vive le Roi?—more wine—more wine,
This, Monarchs, is a day of jubilee!
—Hence, idle jests,—it is too sad a theme—
Monarchs of Europe, when the storm of night
Swept with his eagle wing the subject earth,
15
Where linger'd Russia? where did Austria lurk?
Shall we not speak of Erfurt?—meteor-like,
Ye shifted with the shifting gale, now red
With ominous lustre, now with sudden fall
Precipitate, your light was seen no more—
But, England, thou wert as the steady star,
That, first appearing at the close of day,
Cheers with its lonely beam the traveller,
Nor fades till lost in morning's purple light;
Woe to the traitor, whose unholy breath
Would dim thy glories! to the thoughtless woe,
Who scoff against thee, like some wretched carle
Muttering his magic to the glorious moon;
And even more soon that maniac's frantic words
Shall make her smile with less benignity
Upon the mourning sleeper's weary bed,
Than thou shalt cease to shine above the states
Of earth, than thou shalt furl the lion-flag,
That floats triumphantly in Ocean's breeze!
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2. PART SECOND.
19
“Woe to the guilty land;—the palmer-worm
Shall waste her harvests!—like an evening cloud
The locust-swarms shall rise, and where they leave
The desolated vale, the canker-worm
Shall creep—a few thin ears shall still remain
Of all that Summer promis'd; there the slug
Shall batten, there the caterpillar crawl,
And on the blighted grain shall insect tribes
Leave their cold egg, and perish—Wake and weep,
Wake, Drunkards, from your dream—is this an hour
To pledge the wine-cup?—in your land the vine
Hath wither'd!—on your hills the cedar dies,
And foreign arms are gleaming to the sun—
Wake, Drunkards, wake!”—'Twas thus the prophet spoke,
And they obey'd not—When hath man obey'd
The voice of warning?—Though no prophet call'd
Unhappy France, though on the palace-wall
No hand dim-seen inscribed the words of doom,
As in old Babylon, she might have known
What fate would follow, when she stretch'd her arms
Impatient for the tyrant—might have heard,
In true anticipation, every shriek,
That soon must ring throughout her ravag'd realms—
She might have heard the rush of soldiery,
Numberless as the atoms, that the wind
Drifts in the stormy desart, when some ribb'd
And rifted hill of sand is whirl'd along—
She might have heard the warriors of the Don
And Dwina, shouting forth their strange hurra,
Screaming in sunny vales the dissonance,
That the cold peasant hears, when midnight storms
Shake his rude hut, and from the crashing roof
The whirlwind tears the rushy covering!—
Woe to the land where Prussia's plunderers come!
Behind their path the blaze of cottages
Shall shine, a beacon to the thousand hordes
That starve on Danube's banks!—woe to the land,
Where England comes in anger!—weep, ye wives,
The cross of blood is streaming in the sky!
Weep, daughters, weep, for brand and bayonet
Are sparkling in the sunbeam!—
Shall waste her harvests!—like an evening cloud
The locust-swarms shall rise, and where they leave
The desolated vale, the canker-worm
Shall creep—a few thin ears shall still remain
Of all that Summer promis'd; there the slug
Shall batten, there the caterpillar crawl,
And on the blighted grain shall insect tribes
Leave their cold egg, and perish—Wake and weep,
Wake, Drunkards, from your dream—is this an hour
To pledge the wine-cup?—in your land the vine
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And foreign arms are gleaming to the sun—
Wake, Drunkards, wake!”—'Twas thus the prophet spoke,
And they obey'd not—When hath man obey'd
The voice of warning?—Though no prophet call'd
Unhappy France, though on the palace-wall
No hand dim-seen inscribed the words of doom,
As in old Babylon, she might have known
What fate would follow, when she stretch'd her arms
Impatient for the tyrant—might have heard,
In true anticipation, every shriek,
That soon must ring throughout her ravag'd realms—
She might have heard the rush of soldiery,
Numberless as the atoms, that the wind
Drifts in the stormy desart, when some ribb'd
And rifted hill of sand is whirl'd along—
She might have heard the warriors of the Don
And Dwina, shouting forth their strange hurra,
Screaming in sunny vales the dissonance,
21
Shake his rude hut, and from the crashing roof
The whirlwind tears the rushy covering!—
Woe to the land where Prussia's plunderers come!
Behind their path the blaze of cottages
Shall shine, a beacon to the thousand hordes
That starve on Danube's banks!—woe to the land,
Where England comes in anger!—weep, ye wives,
The cross of blood is streaming in the sky!
Weep, daughters, weep, for brand and bayonet
Are sparkling in the sunbeam!—
Oh! what joy
Is thine, green daughter of the western star,
Ireland, my country, oh! what joy is thine!
But little do I love the din of war,
I cannot tell what soldiers pant to hear,
But many a bard shall chaunt of Wellington,
And fondly hope thy hero's deathless name
Shall give his numbers immortality.—
Is thine, green daughter of the western star,
Ireland, my country, oh! what joy is thine!
But little do I love the din of war,
I cannot tell what soldiers pant to hear,
But many a bard shall chaunt of Wellington,
And fondly hope thy hero's deathless name
Shall give his numbers immortality.—
22
That, when some few are gather'd in thy name,
Thou art amidst them! that the humble prayer
Is not unheard by thee,—didst thou not gaze
With favour, when the climes of half the world,
Mov'd with one impulse, sent their children forth
To dash the tyrant from his tainted throne?—
—Strange were the offerings on that Sabbath-day,
And stern the priests, who watch'd the sacrifice
On Waterloo's red field!—for choral hymn
Was heard the cannon's shock,—black incense steam'd
Against the cloudy heaven! proud warriors there,
For whom the trumpet peal'd a matin-note,
Lie cold, and cannot hear the screams and shrieks,
That shock the ear of night—and cannot hear
The shout of Britain's pride, of Prussia's joy!
—Never from Indian island, lately taught
The Christian's happy creed, where, underneath
The grove's cool boughs, meet many a family
On Sabbath eve, arose a hymn more sweet
23
Of blood, when, gazing on the piles of dead,
The fainting soldier sigh'd his gratitude!—
On what a scene that morning Sun arose!—
Struggling through heavy mists, his watery beams
Shone coldly on that fated plain, and gleam'd
On groves, whose boughs, rent by the midnight storm,
All bare of beauty lay;—from weary bed
The warrior started, on whose fretting ear
All night the voices of the changing winds,
The shivering of branches, and the calls
Of centinel from foreign bivouack,
Came ceaseless, often with that lulling sound,
Which brings the hope of sleep, in mockery,
To him who fain in sleep would lose the thoughts,
The anxious thoughts, that crowd upon his soul—
The Sun arose, and on the drear cold fields
Of Waterloo he shines,—a sadder sight
Is there in those who hail his beams with hope,
24
What rapture swell'd the vein, what eloquence
Of lip, and eye, and gesture! there were those
Who in the battle liv'd a thousand lives,
If life were measur'd by the warrior's joy;—
Now, now the tide tumultuous rolls along,
Swift as the clouds in winter's chilling night,
That, hurrying onward, with their dusky folds
Darken the moon,—swift as their shadows sweep
Along a plain of snow or level lake!—
Look, look how rapidly yon coursers press
Up through those shrouds of smoke:—at times you hear
The shouting riders, when the glancing hoof
Bounds light on softer earth—at times you see,
When the breeze wafts aside the battle-cloud,
The dark brow guarded by the shadowy helm,
The cuirass sparkling on the warrior's breast,
The long lance levell'd in the steady hand.—
And oft before the lancers' charging lines
25
In horizontal whirl of rapid light,
Or downward ray direct—with thundering tramp
The courser presses on—“Revenge—Revenge!”
Is Brunswick's battle-shout—“Revenge—Revenge!”
And well, stern mourners, worthily and well
Did you avenge your Lord—ye did not shrink,
Ye did not falter, when, with tempest-force,
France pour'd upon your squares her chivalry!—
See, where they meet—the pride of England meets
The veteran strength of France—and who shall tell
The tidings of such meeting? who shall live
To say, “My brethren perish'd by my side?”—
Proudly the Eagle, with exulting wing,
Hath revell'd in the tempest;—will he shrink
From this day's storm? untrembling we have view'd
His proudest flights, and shall we tremble now?—
Loud o'er the dinning field, like battle-whoop
Heard in some Indian vale, the hordes of France
26
They charge—they shrink—they fly!—With bolder sweep
Another charge is made;—again they shrink—
And yet another dash.—Ha! there they stand,
An overpowering force—with frantic shout
The groves of Hougomont are ringing.—Hark!—
Again the cry of Britain!—From that wood
How few shall fly!—France charges not in vain,
And, black with blood, the heavy tri-color
Flaps o'er the walls of La-Haye-Sainte!—Still, still
In swift succession rush the hosts of France,
And still the Britons stand in steady square.
On what a scene the evening sun descends—
The doubtful battle still unfix'd—the rage
Of France—the force of England.—Still they strive,
Till now the angel of the evening star
Sheds vainly upon earth his smile of peace,
And from her throne in heaven the summer moon
27
A strange and troubled scene.—I will not tell
The fatal flight of France—I will not pause
To gaze on Blucher:—Who hath not receiv'd,
With joy, that mocks the poet's utterance,
The happy tale?—Yet could I wish to sing
The moonlight meeting, when the Prussian chief,
Who veil'd the furrow'd brow and hoary hair
With the accustom'd helm, in joyous hour
Greeted victorious Wellesley;—'twas an hour
Of pride that man can seldom register,
Yea, centuries have slowly waned along,
And, in their lapsing seasons, no such scene
Of glory through the varied record shines!
Fair orb of night, in what calm majesty,
Thou sailest onward in thy quiet course!
Like waves, that ripple o'er a summer sea,
The soft clouds glide before thee; many an eye
In joy beholds thy course; thy silent beams
Fall on the virgin's cheek, who, blushingly,
Leans o'er the lofty casement, in whose eye
The warm tear glistens, as the lover's song
Dies gradually upon her doating ear—
Oh, with what pleasure she beholds thy beams!
But there are those who with a wilder joy
Hail thee—but there are those who curse thy light!—
Fly, D'Erlon, fly!—Last eve the sable flag
Shadow'd thy host—fly! fly! revenge is near,
And Blucher's bloody brand!
Thou sailest onward in thy quiet course!
Like waves, that ripple o'er a summer sea,
The soft clouds glide before thee; many an eye
In joy beholds thy course; thy silent beams
28
Leans o'er the lofty casement, in whose eye
The warm tear glistens, as the lover's song
Dies gradually upon her doating ear—
Oh, with what pleasure she beholds thy beams!
But there are those who with a wilder joy
Hail thee—but there are those who curse thy light!—
Fly, D'Erlon, fly!—Last eve the sable flag
Shadow'd thy host—fly! fly! revenge is near,
And Blucher's bloody brand!
Imperial slave,
And didst thou fly? and didst thou fear to fall?
Shunning the soldier's honourable death?
And how wilt thou in Paris tell this tale?
And who will hail thee Emperor now? Erewhile
We heard of nought but victory and joy,—
“Joy in Grenoble's streets, in Lyons Joy,
Joy in the courts of Paris; once again
In fields of glory shall the Eagle shine;
Children of France, rejoice! Napoleon reigns.”
Such were the songs that shook thy capital—
Such were the shouts of military joy—
Joy that no good heart echo'd—frantic joy—
A momentary madness, that the soul
Shrinks in the lonely hour to recognize,—
Triumphant shouts of ruffian revelry,
Heard, like the cannon's roll, at evening hour,
By some devoted town, more deep, more dread,
Amid the silence of surrounding woe.—
And hast thou fled? and dost thou fear to die?—
All men, rejoicing, mock'd thy former fall—
Imperial slave, a worse abandonment
Awaits thee now, and no man grieves for thee!
And didst thou fly? and didst thou fear to fall?
Shunning the soldier's honourable death?
And how wilt thou in Paris tell this tale?
And who will hail thee Emperor now? Erewhile
We heard of nought but victory and joy,—
“Joy in Grenoble's streets, in Lyons Joy,
Joy in the courts of Paris; once again
In fields of glory shall the Eagle shine;
Children of France, rejoice! Napoleon reigns.”
29
Such were the shouts of military joy—
Joy that no good heart echo'd—frantic joy—
A momentary madness, that the soul
Shrinks in the lonely hour to recognize,—
Triumphant shouts of ruffian revelry,
Heard, like the cannon's roll, at evening hour,
By some devoted town, more deep, more dread,
Amid the silence of surrounding woe.—
And hast thou fled? and dost thou fear to die?—
All men, rejoicing, mock'd thy former fall—
Imperial slave, a worse abandonment
Awaits thee now, and no man grieves for thee!
31
3. PART THIRD.
33
Gaze on the human frame!—the active foot—
The unwearied hand—the eye intelligent—
The powers and motions—the unceasing breath—
The impulse, the resistance,—each to each
Proportion'd,—all dependant upon all,—
All fearfully, all wonderfully made!—
—But view the soul,—it hath been rightly call'd
A world within,—an agitated world,
Where Passions, Prejudices, Weaknesses,
Bold Aspirations, Terrors tremulous
Hold restless conflict, warring ceaselessly,
Even like the outer earth; aspiring Hope,
With pinions quivering, longs to bathe in heaven;
Lo! Fear, unsteady, hopeless of support,
His dim eye casts upon a deeper gulf,
That indistinctly swims before his sight;
A thousand, thousand phantoms more are there,
That, shifting, mock the pencil which would range
Their shadowy groupes;—such is the human soul,
And such the inmates who hold empire there!
—In each man's bosom thus there lies a world,
All peopled with the same inhabitants,
Each shining with its own peculiar light,
Each with its own peculiar atmosphere—
Oh, I could dwell upon this fond conceit,
Till lost in contemplation;—and such dreams
Are not without their uses;—one man's soul
Commands respect, and “marks him from mankind.”
Fair is the promise of his opening youth,
Fortune hath garlanded his glorious brow;
He stands alone:—the pyramid itself,
That frown'd through ages, and through ages more
Shall frown defiance to the lightning's bolt,
Seems not to press more proudly on its base.
—Where stands this mighty man? Do kings still bend
The humbled knee, or, with vain show of strength,
Send armies to their doom? Do senates still,
With mockery of counsel, legalize
Slavish submission to this lord of earth?
Where stands he?—All have heard the monstrous tale!
The man, who gazed in horror on his crimes,
Whose daily supplication for his son,
Forc'd to the tyrant's arms, came to the ear
Of heaven, as though it were in truth a curse
Upon the tyrant; he, even he, half grieves,
As, dazzled with the glory, he looks back
On former days, and sees the heavy doom
That righteously awaits the man of blood!—
—I have not struggled to repress the sigh
His fate awoke, when I had heard that smiles
Were on his cheek, that laughter curl'd his lip,
That mirth was glancing in the restless eye
When he departed!—'tis a saddening thought
To see such glorious gifts bestow'd in vain,—
To see the lessons of experience prov'd
Thus fruitlessly,—to see a man, whose mind
Was fashion'd to ascend the proudest heaven,
Sink thus abased, till he become the scoff
Of worthless hordes:—but it is sure more sad
To see himself assume the scorner's part,
And join the jester in his mockery!—
Well, I have often pictur'd to myself
This proud destroyer, and I thought that Pride
Would still preserve him, still would fire the eye,
Still darken in the tutor'd countenance;—
I did not deem that Feeling there could dwell,
I did not look for Virtue, and Remorse
Hath too much Virtue in its elements
To mingle with a mind, whose every thought
Is sin—whose every breath is blasphemy!—
—From thy sad place of former banishment,
Didst thou not look at times upon the sea?
It should have given an emblem to thy view,
How many a bark above the barren wave
Hath past, and left no trace,—how many a ball
Hath hiss'd along the waters,—oh, how oft
Hath Man, 'gainst Man array'd, encounter'd here,
In hope of glory; all are now forgot,—
The dwellers of the neighbouring coasts, no more,
Can hold their deeds in memory, than the eye
Dwell on the cloud, or colour, that is past,
Or these still waves retain the imaged form,
While, near some distant shore, the gallant bark
On other waters flings its heavy shade:—
Such is the Conqueror's fame,—a few brief years,
And what remains?—The Antiquarian's search,
The Sophist's sentence, and the School-boy's song!
—Yes, Fame is thine: when to another race
Thy purchas'd slaves have pour'd their flattery,
When scorn hath ceas'd to titter at thy name,
Thou yet shalt live—the Patriot's curse is thine,
The tale of Europe's groans, of murder'd man,
Of violated woman yet shall live,
And give thy deeds to immortality!
—Yes! Fame is thine, and thou hast paid its price!
There was a time—but it is now gone by;
It is but as an hour in dateless years,—
When it was said, the shade of coming night
Assum'd a deeper horror to the eye,
While guilt was busy in the kindred breast;
'Twas said that murderers, in the dead of night,
Started and shriek'd in their oppressive dreams,
Nay, fancy dwelt so on another world,
That even the circle of the joyous sun
Was, to the sickly and distracted sense,
The haunt of demons, and his living light
Seem'd the hot blazes of the penal fire;
'Twas said that furies o'er the bed of sleep
Watch'd with red eye, and, from the throbbing brow,
Drank with delight the dew that agony
Forc'd forth;—but this, it seems, is fable all!—
The tyrant now can rest as quietly
As wearied infant; yea, his features now
Are character'd, it seems, with merriment,
And 'tis the craft of Priesthood, that hath shap'd
A future world,—the kings of distant days
Have countenanc'd the fraud, that fools content
Might look for blessings in another scene,
And bear the yoke more tranquilly in this!—
'Tis, as the kingdom of some petty prince,
Useful to regulate the scales of power,
And yield fair pretext, when the lords of earth
Would sanctify their crimes with Virtue's name—
Oh, we live fearlessly in latter times!
Hath not Philosophy disprov'd a God?—
Ere yet the chymist call'd the bolt from heav'n,
We spoke of spirits governing its beam,—
Ere yet he learn'd to part and analyze
The rock, we deem'd some more than human pow'r
Had planted it in ocean,—'till he stirr'd
The muscles of the dead with mimic breath,
And call'd the cold convulsion life, we deem'd
That Heaven alone could bid the dry bones shake!
—But joy to Man! progressive centuries
Have erred, and Wisdom now at length appears—
And, lo! the Goddess! not with brow austere,
Features, that tell of silent toil, and locks
Laurell'd, as erst in the Athenian schools;—
Nor yet with garment symbol'd o'er with stars,
And signs, and talismans, as in the halls
Of parent Egypt; not with pensive eye,
And dim, as though 't were wearied from its watch
Through the long night, what time, to shepherd-tribes
Of fair Chaldæa, she had imag'd forth
The host of Heav'n, and mapp'd their mazy march,
While the bright dew on her tiara'd brow,
And the cold moonlight on her pallid face,
And the loose wandering of her heavy hair,
(As the breeze lifted the restraining bands,)
And the slow motion of the graceful stole,
When with her jewell'd wand she trac'd the line
Of milky light—all gave a sober air
Of mild solemnity.—She comes not now,
Like that tall matron, on whose sunny cheek
The smile of pleasure shone, when over earth
She yok'd her cloudy chariot to the breeze,
And scatter'd blessings with a bounteous hand,
While young Triptolemus, with flushing face
And animated eye, reveal'd his love,
And sporting with the brown lock's floating length,
Wreath'd her dark temples with the curling shoots,
And green leaves of the vine!—Hath Wisdom rob'd
Her form with mystery, as when Athens bow'd,
At old Eleusis' venerable shrine,
The suppliant knee, while cymbal clash'd, and song
Re-echoed, and, with pomp of sacrifice,
The victims bled to pale Persephone,
'Till all was perfected—then came a pause,
And stop of sound most sudden, and the step
Of votaries falling on the earth so soft,
That not an echo caught the still small sound,
As sad they enter'd the interior vault;
And not a stir was heard among the crowd,
Till from the fane, with sadness in their looks,
The venerable sages issued forth,
Burthen'd with thoughts they never may reveal!
The unwearied hand—the eye intelligent—
The powers and motions—the unceasing breath—
The impulse, the resistance,—each to each
Proportion'd,—all dependant upon all,—
All fearfully, all wonderfully made!—
—But view the soul,—it hath been rightly call'd
A world within,—an agitated world,
Where Passions, Prejudices, Weaknesses,
Bold Aspirations, Terrors tremulous
Hold restless conflict, warring ceaselessly,
34
With pinions quivering, longs to bathe in heaven;
Lo! Fear, unsteady, hopeless of support,
His dim eye casts upon a deeper gulf,
That indistinctly swims before his sight;
A thousand, thousand phantoms more are there,
That, shifting, mock the pencil which would range
Their shadowy groupes;—such is the human soul,
And such the inmates who hold empire there!
—In each man's bosom thus there lies a world,
All peopled with the same inhabitants,
Each shining with its own peculiar light,
Each with its own peculiar atmosphere—
Oh, I could dwell upon this fond conceit,
Till lost in contemplation;—and such dreams
Are not without their uses;—one man's soul
Commands respect, and “marks him from mankind.”
Fair is the promise of his opening youth,
Fortune hath garlanded his glorious brow;
He stands alone:—the pyramid itself,
35
Shall frown defiance to the lightning's bolt,
Seems not to press more proudly on its base.
—Where stands this mighty man? Do kings still bend
The humbled knee, or, with vain show of strength,
Send armies to their doom? Do senates still,
With mockery of counsel, legalize
Slavish submission to this lord of earth?
Where stands he?—All have heard the monstrous tale!
The man, who gazed in horror on his crimes,
Whose daily supplication for his son,
Forc'd to the tyrant's arms, came to the ear
Of heaven, as though it were in truth a curse
Upon the tyrant; he, even he, half grieves,
As, dazzled with the glory, he looks back
On former days, and sees the heavy doom
That righteously awaits the man of blood!—
—I have not struggled to repress the sigh
His fate awoke, when I had heard that smiles
36
That mirth was glancing in the restless eye
When he departed!—'tis a saddening thought
To see such glorious gifts bestow'd in vain,—
To see the lessons of experience prov'd
Thus fruitlessly,—to see a man, whose mind
Was fashion'd to ascend the proudest heaven,
Sink thus abased, till he become the scoff
Of worthless hordes:—but it is sure more sad
To see himself assume the scorner's part,
And join the jester in his mockery!—
Well, I have often pictur'd to myself
This proud destroyer, and I thought that Pride
Would still preserve him, still would fire the eye,
Still darken in the tutor'd countenance;—
I did not deem that Feeling there could dwell,
I did not look for Virtue, and Remorse
Hath too much Virtue in its elements
To mingle with a mind, whose every thought
Is sin—whose every breath is blasphemy!—
37
Didst thou not look at times upon the sea?
It should have given an emblem to thy view,
How many a bark above the barren wave
Hath past, and left no trace,—how many a ball
Hath hiss'd along the waters,—oh, how oft
Hath Man, 'gainst Man array'd, encounter'd here,
In hope of glory; all are now forgot,—
The dwellers of the neighbouring coasts, no more,
Can hold their deeds in memory, than the eye
Dwell on the cloud, or colour, that is past,
Or these still waves retain the imaged form,
While, near some distant shore, the gallant bark
On other waters flings its heavy shade:—
Such is the Conqueror's fame,—a few brief years,
And what remains?—The Antiquarian's search,
The Sophist's sentence, and the School-boy's song!
—Yes, Fame is thine: when to another race
Thy purchas'd slaves have pour'd their flattery,
When scorn hath ceas'd to titter at thy name,
38
The tale of Europe's groans, of murder'd man,
Of violated woman yet shall live,
And give thy deeds to immortality!
—Yes! Fame is thine, and thou hast paid its price!
There was a time—but it is now gone by;
It is but as an hour in dateless years,—
When it was said, the shade of coming night
Assum'd a deeper horror to the eye,
While guilt was busy in the kindred breast;
'Twas said that murderers, in the dead of night,
Started and shriek'd in their oppressive dreams,
Nay, fancy dwelt so on another world,
That even the circle of the joyous sun
Was, to the sickly and distracted sense,
The haunt of demons, and his living light
Seem'd the hot blazes of the penal fire;
'Twas said that furies o'er the bed of sleep
Watch'd with red eye, and, from the throbbing brow,
Drank with delight the dew that agony
39
The tyrant now can rest as quietly
As wearied infant; yea, his features now
Are character'd, it seems, with merriment,
And 'tis the craft of Priesthood, that hath shap'd
A future world,—the kings of distant days
Have countenanc'd the fraud, that fools content
Might look for blessings in another scene,
And bear the yoke more tranquilly in this!—
'Tis, as the kingdom of some petty prince,
Useful to regulate the scales of power,
And yield fair pretext, when the lords of earth
Would sanctify their crimes with Virtue's name—
Oh, we live fearlessly in latter times!
Hath not Philosophy disprov'd a God?—
Ere yet the chymist call'd the bolt from heav'n,
We spoke of spirits governing its beam,—
Ere yet he learn'd to part and analyze
The rock, we deem'd some more than human pow'r
Had planted it in ocean,—'till he stirr'd
40
And call'd the cold convulsion life, we deem'd
That Heaven alone could bid the dry bones shake!
—But joy to Man! progressive centuries
Have erred, and Wisdom now at length appears—
And, lo! the Goddess! not with brow austere,
Features, that tell of silent toil, and locks
Laurell'd, as erst in the Athenian schools;—
Nor yet with garment symbol'd o'er with stars,
And signs, and talismans, as in the halls
Of parent Egypt; not with pensive eye,
And dim, as though 't were wearied from its watch
Through the long night, what time, to shepherd-tribes
Of fair Chaldæa, she had imag'd forth
The host of Heav'n, and mapp'd their mazy march,
While the bright dew on her tiara'd brow,
And the cold moonlight on her pallid face,
And the loose wandering of her heavy hair,
(As the breeze lifted the restraining bands,)
And the slow motion of the graceful stole,
41
Of milky light—all gave a sober air
Of mild solemnity.—She comes not now,
Like that tall matron, on whose sunny cheek
The smile of pleasure shone, when over earth
She yok'd her cloudy chariot to the breeze,
And scatter'd blessings with a bounteous hand,
While young Triptolemus, with flushing face
And animated eye, reveal'd his love,
And sporting with the brown lock's floating length,
Wreath'd her dark temples with the curling shoots,
And green leaves of the vine!—Hath Wisdom rob'd
Her form with mystery, as when Athens bow'd,
At old Eleusis' venerable shrine,
The suppliant knee, while cymbal clash'd, and song
Re-echoed, and, with pomp of sacrifice,
The victims bled to pale Persephone,
'Till all was perfected—then came a pause,
And stop of sound most sudden, and the step
Of votaries falling on the earth so soft,
42
As sad they enter'd the interior vault;
And not a stir was heard among the crowd,
Till from the fane, with sadness in their looks,
The venerable sages issued forth,
Burthen'd with thoughts they never may reveal!
But now Philosophy hath thrown aside
These old austerities; with smiling lip,
And features painted for the last night's dance,
She reels into the chair; around her seat
Attends a motley throng,—and first Old Age,
With solemn countenance, disturb'd at times,
When hoarse hard coughs convulse the palsied frame,
Mark! with what rapture he unlearns his creed!—
The stammering tongue of Boyhood next is taught
To mutter over some unmeaning words,
“Motion” and “Matter,” “Liberty” and “Chance.”
Youth lingers here to learn the silly cant,
And soon with fevered soul, and blood on fire,
Will rush more madly to the wild debauch.—
The maiden must not blush to hear the name
Of maiden held in mockery, to hear
All the kind charities of life profan'd,
And lessons taught, at which our ancestors
Are shuddering in their startled sepulchres;—
And these are they,—these, who such doctrines preach,
These are the men, whom France hath deified!—
Heavens! I would rather bow before the stone,
Would lead my children to the mountain's brow,
And teach them all the old observances,
That ever frantic fanatic hath dream'd;—
Would rear an obelisk, on whose high top,
Shivering in cold, and cheerless penitence,
I might at length demand the martyr's crown,
Than hear such sickening immorality,
And themes, that force on the abhorrent soul
Harsh feelings, that refuse to harmonize
With such tranquillity as Wisdom loves!
These old austerities; with smiling lip,
And features painted for the last night's dance,
She reels into the chair; around her seat
Attends a motley throng,—and first Old Age,
With solemn countenance, disturb'd at times,
When hoarse hard coughs convulse the palsied frame,
Mark! with what rapture he unlearns his creed!—
The stammering tongue of Boyhood next is taught
To mutter over some unmeaning words,
“Motion” and “Matter,” “Liberty” and “Chance.”
Youth lingers here to learn the silly cant,
And soon with fevered soul, and blood on fire,
43
The maiden must not blush to hear the name
Of maiden held in mockery, to hear
All the kind charities of life profan'd,
And lessons taught, at which our ancestors
Are shuddering in their startled sepulchres;—
And these are they,—these, who such doctrines preach,
These are the men, whom France hath deified!—
Heavens! I would rather bow before the stone,
Would lead my children to the mountain's brow,
And teach them all the old observances,
That ever frantic fanatic hath dream'd;—
Would rear an obelisk, on whose high top,
Shivering in cold, and cheerless penitence,
I might at length demand the martyr's crown,
Than hear such sickening immorality,
And themes, that force on the abhorrent soul
Harsh feelings, that refuse to harmonize
With such tranquillity as Wisdom loves!
45
4. PART FOURTH.
47
Philosophers, anatomists of soul,
Ye have display'd a fearful spectacle,
The human heart exposed in nakedness!
Come, gaze upon a kindred sight of woe;
A hideous phantom,—from the bloated limb
Dull drops the heavy flesh,—the bloodless vein
Shrinks,—and the long cold arm, so ghastly white,
Strikes with damp rattle on the bony thigh;
A sickly green hath rusted on the brow,
As though 'twere borrow'd from the charnel stone;
And the dry dust is on the spider's web,
That shades the vacant dwelling of the eye;
A few thin locks still linger on the brow,
And the chill breeze will sometimes shake those locks,
With something not unlike the stir of life,
More fearful than the fearful calm beneath;—
Well may'st thou shudder now,—but if that frame
Should move, if from his lonely prison-place,
By old Seville, or where Toledo taught
Black secrets, started some foul fiend, whose task
It is, to breathe around the vaulted grave
The dewy dampness, that the mouldwarp loves,—
To bathe the fungus, with the clammy drop,
That oozes from the dead decaying flesh,—
To feed in silence the sepulchral lamp;
What, if o'erwearied with the tedious task,
He loos'd the ligaments that held him there,
And, bursting thro' the sepulchre's cold clasps,
He bathed his black wings in the moonlight sea,
And flinging round his path a meteor-shower,
And pouring on the gale his stormy voice,
Stain'd with his dusky presence the blue night;
—What if he breath'd himself into that frame,
Swell'd out those limbs to giant vastitude,
Gave animation to the morbid mass,
Lit the deserted fortress of the eye,
And stalk'd 'mong men, and call'd upon the tribes,
That gaz'd in awe, to bow before his might,
And conquering, and to conquer, bent his course,
And rous'd a thousand brother-fiends to share
The spoil, and glory in the gloomy view!—
—Even such a Spirit over Earth has pass'd,
Dimm'd the green beauties of Columbia's vales,
And, scoffing at each dear humanity
Of life, infected with his poisonous breath
The heaven of France—“Hail, Revolution, hail!
All hail, redeeming Spirit!”—shout and song,
The ceaseless voice of maddening multitudes
Rung the acclaim!—through courts, through cottages,
That Spirit stalk'd—the temple's sanctuary
Is foul—the altar hath been stain'd with blood—
The lovely novice-nun, whose lingering ear
Dwelt on the evening hymn, who half believ'd,
As through the chapel's painted panes she view'd
The slow-descending sun, that from his orb
On some slant beam angelic psalmists come
To join the hymns of earth:—oh! she hath shrunk
To feel the ruffian's hand fling back her veil,
To see the face that scorn'd her agonies,
To hear the screams, and shouts, and heavier sobs,
Till sight, and sense, and feeling past away;
At length she wakens from that utter trance
Never to smile again; and fears to pray,
And hates herself for her unworthiness:—
Ye have display'd a fearful spectacle,
The human heart exposed in nakedness!
Come, gaze upon a kindred sight of woe;
A hideous phantom,—from the bloated limb
Dull drops the heavy flesh,—the bloodless vein
Shrinks,—and the long cold arm, so ghastly white,
Strikes with damp rattle on the bony thigh;
A sickly green hath rusted on the brow,
As though 'twere borrow'd from the charnel stone;
And the dry dust is on the spider's web,
48
A few thin locks still linger on the brow,
And the chill breeze will sometimes shake those locks,
With something not unlike the stir of life,
More fearful than the fearful calm beneath;—
Well may'st thou shudder now,—but if that frame
Should move, if from his lonely prison-place,
By old Seville, or where Toledo taught
Black secrets, started some foul fiend, whose task
It is, to breathe around the vaulted grave
The dewy dampness, that the mouldwarp loves,—
To bathe the fungus, with the clammy drop,
That oozes from the dead decaying flesh,—
To feed in silence the sepulchral lamp;
What, if o'erwearied with the tedious task,
He loos'd the ligaments that held him there,
And, bursting thro' the sepulchre's cold clasps,
He bathed his black wings in the moonlight sea,
And flinging round his path a meteor-shower,
49
Stain'd with his dusky presence the blue night;
—What if he breath'd himself into that frame,
Swell'd out those limbs to giant vastitude,
Gave animation to the morbid mass,
Lit the deserted fortress of the eye,
And stalk'd 'mong men, and call'd upon the tribes,
That gaz'd in awe, to bow before his might,
And conquering, and to conquer, bent his course,
And rous'd a thousand brother-fiends to share
The spoil, and glory in the gloomy view!—
—Even such a Spirit over Earth has pass'd,
Dimm'd the green beauties of Columbia's vales,
And, scoffing at each dear humanity
Of life, infected with his poisonous breath
The heaven of France—“Hail, Revolution, hail!
All hail, redeeming Spirit!”—shout and song,
The ceaseless voice of maddening multitudes
Rung the acclaim!—through courts, through cottages,
50
Is foul—the altar hath been stain'd with blood—
The lovely novice-nun, whose lingering ear
Dwelt on the evening hymn, who half believ'd,
As through the chapel's painted panes she view'd
The slow-descending sun, that from his orb
On some slant beam angelic psalmists come
To join the hymns of earth:—oh! she hath shrunk
To feel the ruffian's hand fling back her veil,
To see the face that scorn'd her agonies,
To hear the screams, and shouts, and heavier sobs,
Till sight, and sense, and feeling past away;
At length she wakens from that utter trance
Never to smile again; and fears to pray,
And hates herself for her unworthiness:—
Along the silent walks of studious men
That fiend hath past—no more the winding wave
Recalls to memory those enchanting times,
When, on Diana's cheek the breeze of dawn
Breath'd rosy colouring, as with buskin'd foot
The graceful huntress past through pearly dew,
And, in the groves of Delos, rous'd the lark
To greet her brother's beam;—no more the bard
Pours songs to Venus, and deludes his heart
With the fond fiction!—Gods, whom Greece ador'd,
Farewell! farewell the everlasting page
Of Homer! Dreams of Sophocles, farewell!—
Wise men proscribe your influence, yet be sure
That not in vain that influence hath been breath'd;
Renounce more soon, my friend, the lucid page
Of old Eudoxus, fling away the book
Where Newton's spirit lives,—renounce more soon
The search of nature through her hidden walks
Than the bard's spiritual breathings;—they will yield
A calm sweet temper, that delights to please,
And can enjoy the pleasure it imparts!
—But if thy secret bosom hath rejoic'd
At its own grand conceptions, if the flow
Of music, heard at twilight-time, hath wak'd
Feelings, not much unlike its varying tones,
To thee I need not tell, what added strength
Will nerve the plume, that seeks with elder bards
Olympus high, and bathes in Castaly;
—Oh! for such wisdom would'st thou not renounce
The sophist's jarring sounds, and view in scorn
The dreams that France hath call'd philosophy?
Would'st thou not gaze in wonder and contempt,
Like the Peruvian, when, in Cusco's fane,
The white-rob'd priest flung down the offerings
Of flowers and fruitage, and, with bitter voice,
Call'd on the savage man to bend his knee
To sculptur'd stone, and in prostration fall
Before the graven work of human hands,
While through the open roof the mid-day sun
Shone visible a God, and with the blaze
Of brightness mock'd the taper's sickening ray!
That fiend hath past—no more the winding wave
Recalls to memory those enchanting times,
When, on Diana's cheek the breeze of dawn
51
The graceful huntress past through pearly dew,
And, in the groves of Delos, rous'd the lark
To greet her brother's beam;—no more the bard
Pours songs to Venus, and deludes his heart
With the fond fiction!—Gods, whom Greece ador'd,
Farewell! farewell the everlasting page
Of Homer! Dreams of Sophocles, farewell!—
Wise men proscribe your influence, yet be sure
That not in vain that influence hath been breath'd;
Renounce more soon, my friend, the lucid page
Of old Eudoxus, fling away the book
Where Newton's spirit lives,—renounce more soon
The search of nature through her hidden walks
Than the bard's spiritual breathings;—they will yield
A calm sweet temper, that delights to please,
And can enjoy the pleasure it imparts!
—But if thy secret bosom hath rejoic'd
At its own grand conceptions, if the flow
Of music, heard at twilight-time, hath wak'd
52
To thee I need not tell, what added strength
Will nerve the plume, that seeks with elder bards
Olympus high, and bathes in Castaly;
—Oh! for such wisdom would'st thou not renounce
The sophist's jarring sounds, and view in scorn
The dreams that France hath call'd philosophy?
Would'st thou not gaze in wonder and contempt,
Like the Peruvian, when, in Cusco's fane,
The white-rob'd priest flung down the offerings
Of flowers and fruitage, and, with bitter voice,
Call'd on the savage man to bend his knee
To sculptur'd stone, and in prostration fall
Before the graven work of human hands,
While through the open roof the mid-day sun
Shone visible a God, and with the blaze
Of brightness mock'd the taper's sickening ray!
Spirit of Heaven, undying Poetry,
Effluence divine! for by too high a name
I cannot call thee,—ere the ocean roll'd
Round Earth, ere yet the dewy light serene
Stream'd from the silent fountains of the East,
To fill the urns of morning, thou didst breathe,
And, musing near the secret seat of God,
Wert thron'd o'er Angels! thou alone could'st look
On the eternal glory; till thy voice
Was heard amid the halls of heaven, no breath
Disturb'd the awful silence! Cherubim
Gaz'd on thy winning looks, and hung in trance
Of wonder, when thy lonely warblings came,
Sweet as all instruments, that after-art
Of angel or of man hath fashion'd forth.
—Spirit of heaven, didst thou not company
The great Creator?—thou didst see the sun
Rise like a giant from the chambering wave,
And, when he sank behind the new-form'd hills,
Shrined in a purple cloud, wert thou not there,
Smiling in gladness from some shadowy knoll
Of larch, or graceful cedar, and at times
Viewing the stream that wound below in light,
And shew'd upon its breast the imag'd heaven,
And all those shades, which men in after-days
Liken to trees, and barks, and battlements,
And all seem'd good to thee;—wert thou not near,
When first the starting sod awoke to life,
And Man arose in grandeur?—Thou didst weep
His fall from Eden, and in saddest hour
Thou wert not absent:—from the peopled ark
Thy voice arose, the tribes of air and earth
Forgot their fears of the increasing wave,
When from thy throne, within the human heart,
Breath'd slow the evening-psalm, ere yet the Dove
Roam'd o'er the watery waste with weary wing!—
Spirit of Heaven, thy first best song on earth
Was Gratitude! thy first best gift to man
The Charities;—Love, in whose full eye gleams
The April-tear,—all dear Domestic Joys,
That sweetly smile in the secluded bowers
Of Innocence;—thy presence hath illum'd
The temple; with the prophets thou hast walk'd,
Inspiring!—oh! how seldom hast thou found
A worthy residence!—the world receives
Thy holiest emanations with cold heart;
The bosom, where, as in a sanctuary,
Thy altar shines, with its own grossness dims
The blaze, or, faint with the “excess of light,”
Thy votary sinks, and in a long repose
Would rest the wearied soul: how many a one
Insults thy presence, forcing thee to join
The haunts of riot and of revelry,
Yet, when the voice of Eloquence is dumb,
When Virtue shrinks from the appalling task
To rouse a sinking people to the sense
Of shame, then, Spirit, deeply dost thou move
The soul!—oh, breathe, as with thy Milton's voice,
And testify against these evil times:
Oh, paint to nations, sunk in sloth and sleep,
The virtues of their fathers—let thy song
Come like the language of a better world,
Like fancied tones, that soothe the musing bard
When passions slumber, and serenity
Breathes softly, as the gale on summer's eve:
Fling images of love, as fair as those
That, from the bosom of the deep, allure
The mariner, presenting to his eye
The hills his little feet were taught to climb,
The valley where he lived, the pillar'd smoke
That shines in the evening sun, from the low roof
Where dwell his children and deserted wife!
I may not venture on such theme: I feel
Effluence divine! for by too high a name
53
Round Earth, ere yet the dewy light serene
Stream'd from the silent fountains of the East,
To fill the urns of morning, thou didst breathe,
And, musing near the secret seat of God,
Wert thron'd o'er Angels! thou alone could'st look
On the eternal glory; till thy voice
Was heard amid the halls of heaven, no breath
Disturb'd the awful silence! Cherubim
Gaz'd on thy winning looks, and hung in trance
Of wonder, when thy lonely warblings came,
Sweet as all instruments, that after-art
Of angel or of man hath fashion'd forth.
—Spirit of heaven, didst thou not company
The great Creator?—thou didst see the sun
Rise like a giant from the chambering wave,
And, when he sank behind the new-form'd hills,
Shrined in a purple cloud, wert thou not there,
Smiling in gladness from some shadowy knoll
Of larch, or graceful cedar, and at times
54
And shew'd upon its breast the imag'd heaven,
And all those shades, which men in after-days
Liken to trees, and barks, and battlements,
And all seem'd good to thee;—wert thou not near,
When first the starting sod awoke to life,
And Man arose in grandeur?—Thou didst weep
His fall from Eden, and in saddest hour
Thou wert not absent:—from the peopled ark
Thy voice arose, the tribes of air and earth
Forgot their fears of the increasing wave,
When from thy throne, within the human heart,
Breath'd slow the evening-psalm, ere yet the Dove
Roam'd o'er the watery waste with weary wing!—
Spirit of Heaven, thy first best song on earth
Was Gratitude! thy first best gift to man
The Charities;—Love, in whose full eye gleams
The April-tear,—all dear Domestic Joys,
That sweetly smile in the secluded bowers
Of Innocence;—thy presence hath illum'd
55
Inspiring!—oh! how seldom hast thou found
A worthy residence!—the world receives
Thy holiest emanations with cold heart;
The bosom, where, as in a sanctuary,
Thy altar shines, with its own grossness dims
The blaze, or, faint with the “excess of light,”
Thy votary sinks, and in a long repose
Would rest the wearied soul: how many a one
Insults thy presence, forcing thee to join
The haunts of riot and of revelry,
Yet, when the voice of Eloquence is dumb,
When Virtue shrinks from the appalling task
To rouse a sinking people to the sense
Of shame, then, Spirit, deeply dost thou move
The soul!—oh, breathe, as with thy Milton's voice,
And testify against these evil times:
Oh, paint to nations, sunk in sloth and sleep,
The virtues of their fathers—let thy song
Come like the language of a better world,
56
When passions slumber, and serenity
Breathes softly, as the gale on summer's eve:
Fling images of love, as fair as those
That, from the bosom of the deep, allure
The mariner, presenting to his eye
The hills his little feet were taught to climb,
The valley where he lived, the pillar'd smoke
That shines in the evening sun, from the low roof
Where dwell his children and deserted wife!
My many weaknesses! a little while
Repose my harp in silence, we have wak'd
Numbers too lofty;—rest we here awhile!
81
ZAMRI.
A FRAGMENT.
83
When its bosom lies in light?
And have the scenes of life to thee
Been as beautiful and bright
As the vallies of ocean, lovelily
Shining to court the sight?
To thee do I sing;—'tis a tale of fear,
Of wonder and woe, that thou shalt hear!
To thee do I sing—for the happy should know,
And the proud should hear, the tales of woe!
84
Hast thou toiled through the desart with burning feet,
Lips parched, and black, and broken with heat?
Thine eye, deceived by a fleeting scene,
Where the palm-tree grows, and the long grass green,
Have the waves of dry sand, eddying near,
With a voice like waters mocked thine ear?
And has thy lot in life been placed
'Mid scenes as wild, and lone, and waste?
To thee do I sing—'tis a mournful lay,
But 'twill while the Mourner's sorrows away!—
[OMITTED]
“I thought—what words can never speak!—
Lips parched, and black, and broken with heat?
Thine eye, deceived by a fleeting scene,
Where the palm-tree grows, and the long grass green,
Have the waves of dry sand, eddying near,
With a voice like waters mocked thine ear?
And has thy lot in life been placed
'Mid scenes as wild, and lone, and waste?
To thee do I sing—'tis a mournful lay,
But 'twill while the Mourner's sorrows away!—
[_]
[The tale which the preceding lines were intended to introduce was never completed; and the fragment preserved is but a small part of what was written. I had attempted to describe the earlier scenes of Zamri's life, and his domestic happiness, till blasted by the murder of his son. In the lines which follow, Zamri continues the narrative from that event.]
85
I felt—as never man before!—
I felt—till Feeling ceased to pain,
Till stupor froze my wearied brain,
Till frenzy's throes no more convulse,
Till the blood toiled through every pulse;
Then—then there came, a burst of flame,
That filled my soul, that fired my frame—
Then spoke a voice within my breast,
A voice that would not be represt,—
It spoke, as with an angel's tone,—
Revenge, it cried, Revenge, alone!
“Revenge!”—I blest the sound!—in wrath,
I felt—till Feeling ceased to pain,
Till stupor froze my wearied brain,
Till frenzy's throes no more convulse,
Till the blood toiled through every pulse;
Then—then there came, a burst of flame,
That filled my soul, that fired my frame—
Then spoke a voice within my breast,
A voice that would not be represt,—
It spoke, as with an angel's tone,—
Revenge, it cried, Revenge, alone!
By dark Kiderle's name, I swore,
That I would trace the ocean-path,
Would tread on every Christian shore;
Nor toil, nor age, nor pain, nor sloth,
Should free me, (such my desperate oath,)
Till I should glut me with the gore
86
Then might my spirit, gratified,
Revenge and rest at length enjoy,
Nor mourn in vain my murdered boy:—
Foolish the oath!—mayhap 'twas worse—
But, Stranger, 'twas a father's curse!—
Straight onward sped I to the sea,—
The voice within was goading me—
The winds were loud—no pilot then
Would trust his bark to faithless seas,
But I,—who was alone 'mong men,—
Whose hopes were fled,—whose son was dead,—
With maniac hand the canvass spread,
Regardless, whether ocean's wave
In tumult to the tempest rave,
Or playful sport with gentle breeze,
And then—but tale of miseries
Mayhap no other breast will please
87
His chequered woes; but, Son, thy gaze
Informs me, that thou lovest well
An old man's tale of youthful days.
“As sad I roamed the desert deep,
I sank into a troubled sleep;
A coldness hung upon my breast,—
It was not pain,—it was not rest,—
My eye was weary, and my hand
Too weak to raise the warrior-brand;
Even though the wretch I sought were there,
Methinks I had been forced to spare;
Phantoms of dread around me roll,
Dreams such as haunt the murderer's soul,
Hovering within the unholy tomb,
To vex him till the day of doom;
And with an heart, more dark, more dread,
He cannot quit such lonely bed,
88
Than from that dreary sleep I woke!
“I know not if the eye saw true,
But more than nature met its view:—
Horror, Despair, Distraction, Death,
Shrieked frantic in the tempest's breath,—
Each image that before me rolled,
Was bloody—indistinct—and cold,
Like meteors, through a clouded sky,
In rapid rush they darted by!
Seen by the lightning's light, a form
Shone bright amid the darkening storm,—
Her eye-ball shed a lurid glare,
The wind, that rushed among her hair,
Left her dark cheek and forehead bare.
I viewed her eye's unquiet roll,
And Vengeance settled in my soul;
Like Meina's maddening glance it shone,
When first she viewed her murdered son!—
89
Upon the burning waters tread,—
His pale hand crumbled in my hold,
The eye that fixed on mine was cold,
I felt his breath upon my cheek,
I heard his voice—one piercing shriek,
More dread than was his parting groan:—
I gazed—oh God! I was alone!—
I loathed the loneliness that gave
Such close communion with the grave;
The waves were calm, the winds assuaged,
Still in my soul their spirit raged,
Strange shadows fell from lowering clouds,
And spectres sighed amid the shrouds,
And every stir that met my ear
Along the ocean's silence drear,
Would sound like tones that once were dear—
Such hours again I would not live,
For all Man seeks, or Heaven could give!—
90
Of him whose hand had slain my son,
In sleep I saw his life-blood spilt,—
Alas! I woke, and felt the hilt
Of the bright sabre firmly grasped,
By my convulsive fingers clasped—
But—oh! the blade was still unstained
Which late the murderer's blood had drained,
As wandering fancy loved to deem,—
I doted on the dreadful dream.
'Tis strange the fearful joy I felt
As on such thoughts I darkly dwelt;
But when from visioned bliss awake,
Then was my bosom doomed to ache;
I thought alone on prospects cross'd,
My slaughtered son, my consort lost,—
I thought on fortune's sudden change,
And sighed and started for Revenge—
91
Shook in the tempest of the soul:—
The burning eye, that throbbed in pain,
As stern it gazed with steady strain,—
The ear, that mystic sounds would form
Mid rush of wave and roar of storm,
And fancy accents sad and strange
Along the ocean's weary range,—
All—in those dizzying hours of dread—
Seemed as though earth and heaven had fled
For ever, from the eye and ear,
That knew no objects but of fear:—
The sun, that stain'd the burning flood,
It rose in fire, it sank in blood—
The mist, that hurrying whirlwinds sweep,
Past, like a spectre o'er the deep—
—Like that red sun, that dusky cloud
Darkened and flamed my spirit proud!—
92
Came calmly on my yielding breast,
'Twas sweet to roam o'er moonlight seas,
'Twas sweet to breathe the midnight breeze,
When not a sound the silence broke,
And not a stir the bosom woke,—
Was there no sound?—the waters flow,
And breathe a murmur sad and low,
And, from the convent on the rock,
Chimes the slow warning of the clock,
And, o'er the wave so bright and calm,
At times you hear the plaintive psalm,
And just can see the shadows dim
Of monks, who pour that measured hymn:
—My soul, though long untuned to bliss,
Mourned not 'mid such a scene as this!—
What odours breathe from every grove,
What thousand twinkling leaflets move,
93
And o'er the water shift and stray!—
—I loved to mark the Pharos' light
Streak the blue wave with trembling white,
And gleam serene upon my bark,—
Like Hope, when all around was dark!
Then thoughts of former hours would roll
Faint through the darkness of my soul:
I dwelt upon my daughter's doom,
I saw her bright in beauty's bloom
Returning to her sire, to shine
And shed repose on his decline:
And in such hour, that son, whose fate
Hath made this bosom desolate,
Even him again I seemed to see
Burst from the tomb to life and me!
“Strange fancies then would I conceive,
Such even as madness dotes to weave,
94
It was so wild, so sad, so sweet,
Silence and utter solitude
Had soothed me to a pensive mood;
Methought at length had ceased the strife,
The woes, the weariness of life,—
Methought the pang of death was o'er,
And I was journeying to the shore
Where gladness dwells for evermore;
The boundless ocean seemed to me
The waters of eternity,
And glories from another sky
In distant prospect blest mine eye;
A moment glowed the vision bright—
A moment—and again 'twas night!—
“Thou, boy, art young, and yet some friend
Of thine may share the grave's cold sleep;
Mayhap thou lovest alone to bend
Above his tomb and weep;—
95
Whose hopes, whose heart, whose soul was thine?
Whose eye, whene'er thine met its view,
Beam'd, till the spirit sparkled through?
And has thy loved and loving bride
Left thee in loneliness, and died?—
—Deep may'st thou sigh, but can'st not know
The anguish of a father's woe:—
The camp, the field, the court, the bower,
Another smiling paramour,
And youth and years bring thee relief;
But think upon the restless grief
Of him, whose hopes were fix'd upon
A dearer self, an only son,
Whose hand should prop him on the brink,
Ere yet into the grave he sink,—
Whose arm—but it is pain to think!—
—Blame not such father, but his fate,
If he may seem too much to hate
96
The infidel—who slew his son!—
“And he hath fallen, and not in vain
I called on vengeance for the slain;—
It was no common breeze, that sped
My bark along the ocean's bed—
It was no dream, no erring thought,
A frantic father's anguish wrought,—
'Twas Heaven that led my course aright,
And I was shadowed by its might;
And I was summoned to obey
The guiding power that shaped my way!
“The evening hour was still and soft,
The moon, unclouded, shone aloft,
And I was gazing on the Deep;—
I watched the billows slowly creep—
I marked the varying colours, cast
O'er each, while mingling with the last,
97
Trembling and changing with the beam;
—That gleam of green more steady grew,
The noiseless wave was still,
A deeper green!—a darker blue!—
—'Tis my native vale, that meets my view,
And the flow of my own blue rill,
And the shadowy groves are peeping through
The morning mists of the hill!
The scene is bright in the glow of the year,
And all is vivid to eye and ear;—
I hear the stir of the breeze, that heaves
On the water the lily's recumbent leaves;
The sky-lark's song, and the swallow's shriek,
And the music of winds in the caverned peak;—
I see the swan sail calmly by,
And the ringlet formed by the falling fly,
The woodbines wreathing the coloured crag,
The lifted head of the antlered stag:—
98
With playful atoms of insect life;—
Light breezes bend the head of the rose,
And scatter on earth the cistus' snows;
The clouds and the mists are sailing by,
And fading fast in the blue of the sky;
The streaks of coloured light, that shone
O'er the chambers of the east, are gone;
The sunbeams fall, like a silent shower,
Through the stirring leaves of the budding bower,—
And, Meina, before my eye thou art,
As when first thy loveliness fix'd my heart;
With the wreath of roses my fingers wound,
Thy sunny locks, dear girl, are bound;
Thy hand moves swift o'er the harp I strung.
Thy voice is busy with lays I sung—
Look up, dear girl, thy wanderer 's at home!—
—I looked for her glance, and I saw—the sea-foam;
I saw once more that lovely scene,
But the cold blue water gushed between;—
99
But the dream of delight had for ever gone by:—
'Tis strange in those moments no sorrow woke,
No thought of my son the transport broke!
—“Still was I musing on this scene,
When, lo! an armed brigantine,
With sail outspread, and streamer flowing,
And oarsmen rapidly all rowing!—
I viewed her break the foamy main,
And, though I gazed and gazed again,
Methought it was my idle brain
Had shaped the phantom fair;
And still I gazed, and still I thought
The creature strange that fancy wrought
Would fade away in air;
More near approached the pirate bark,—
Its shadow fell more long and dark,—
They reached my little boat:—appalled,
On good Mohammed's name I called;
100
In sooth I had no heart to pray—
The steersman heard the name divine,
And blest him with th' unholy sign,
And smiled;—I saw that sneer before,
When my son, sinking, writhed in gore,—
That moment o'er my spirit cross'd
The thoughts of all I loved and lost;
—Oh! I have seen the tyger crouch
To watch the pilgrim's grassy couch,
Have marked the burning eye-ball's glare
Ere yet he leaves his silent lair,—
Like him the captive Zamri lay,
With eye, that rested on his prey:—
“Dark fell the night—and fierce and fast,
Through riven sail and crashing mast,
The lightning's hurrying arrows past—
—Yes! Heaven's own lightning was my guide,
And Heaven's own strength my arm supplied,—
101
In prayer the frighted pilot kneeled;—
—A sudden tide of passion gushed
Along my veins, and forth I rushed,—
Swift, as the lightning's winged dart,
The sabre's point was in his heart!
“A moment undisturbed I stood,
And gazed in gladness on the blood;—
They viewed in fear, but did not seize,
The avenger, standing o'er the slain;
It seemed mine eye had power to freeze
The life that paused in every vein,
So chill each look, so hushed each breath,
Of those who saw that scene of death:—
And yet no stir:—I heard alone
One throbbing pulse, one deep-drawn groan,
Disturb the general hush;
102
As bursting from the broken vein
The rapid life-drops gush;
I marked one effort, made to pray,
Or curse, die indistinct away,
As the lip, mocking at the will,
Shook, quivered, writhed, and then was still:—
—“A moment, and mine eye was dim,—
I did not see, I did not think,
But through each pulse and through each limb
I felt my failing spirit shrink:
Yet all was hushed—one moment more
They seized the hand still hot with gore!—
—Ah! senseless ones! why seize this hand?
Will he for whom hath been untwined
Each tie that linked him to his kind
Pause now to think on axe and brand?
Think ye he stands to calculate
How best to 'scape the murderer's fate,
103
Round moveless feet and passive hands?—
Thought ye the sight of sun or star,
Thought ye the breath and dews of heaven,
One added rapture could have given,
That thus in wrath ye flung me far
From all the scenes that can impart
Enjoyment to the untroubled heart?
Thought ye, when in your dungeon cast,
And lingering there companionless,
The long and weary hours I past
Abandoned tamely to distress?—
No! I have listened to the breeze,
And heard the music of the seas,
And joyous echoed every sound
That swept my prison-house around—
—Yes!—if thou wilt, pronounce it madness—
Oft with my fettered feet I sprang,
Oft did I clash my chains in gladness,
Oft in delirous joy I sang—
104
And joy was in his eye and air,
Nor could I wish his fortune changed,
Whose death so deeply was avenged.
Why did ye fling me thus from light?
Thought ye I cared for noon or night?
—My prison hours were hours of joy,
Yet intercharged with agony—
Yes! raptures rose like waves that reach
The proud rocks of some lonely beach,
Then ebb, and, when they cease to heave,
Oh, what a dreary waste they leave!—
“How wildly then did passions rave!
The Moon of Madness ruled the wave—
—What bursts of splendour light the Deep,
What shadows o'er its surges sweep!—
—I cannot linger here, to tell
The tortures Man prepared for me,
The blood that stained my lonely cell,
105
That, when the body shrank and fell,
Groaned not amid the agony!—
I called for tortures—and I felt
Strange pleasure in the stripes they dealt;—
In rage they struck—I loved to shew
With what calm scorn I bore the blow—
Still did they meanly spare this breath,
Lest suffering should be 'scap'd by death!
—“Amid such shocks of outward strife,
Such dreams, each wilder than the past,
My brain with fearful visions rife,
My body worn, 'twas strange that life
Sank not beneath the weight at last!
[OMITTED]
153
SONNET.
[Oh, deem not, though her spirit hath defied]
Oh, deem not, though her spirit hath defiedScandal, and Scorn, the taunts of lying lips,
That Pride hath clouded it with stern eclipse:—
—The stream reflects the wild-flower on his side,
Dimples serenely, as the swallow dips
An idle wing, but, mocking at the force
That would restrain him from his own free course,
Rolls on rejoicingly in tranquil pride;
And thus shall she rejoice of whom I speak,
Who listens heedless to the slanderer's voice,
Feelings subdued—a heart resigned and meek
—The eye of Heaven that smiles upon her choice—
That inward peace, which all shall find, who seek,—
These are her gifts, and shall she not rejoice?
1816.
154
SONNET.
[Well! with what art we labour to deceive]
Well! with what art we labour to deceiveOur hearts, and nurse vain phantasies of Hope,
And swelling thoughts, that have no certain scope,
What textures of enchantment do we weave,
What visions form, that we must disbelieve,
When first we cease to sit beneath the cope
Of Fancy, and behold our brethren grope
Through woes, that living man can never leave!
Oft have I sate in utter loneliness,
And dreamed a dream, for earth too passing fair,
The visioned scene I vainly could express,
I only know, that, Clara, thou wert there!
Oh! years have past since first this dream was sweet,
And years must pass, ere it can be complete!
1814.
155
SONNET.
[And must I perish thus?—a nameless tomb]
And must I perish thus?—a nameless tombWhere few shall weep:—some days of writhing pain,
Ere yet I sink:—some hopes that still remain,
Though Reason mock at them:—is this my doom?—
Oft have I sate in silence—then the mind
Was busy, and its images serene
Seemed some dim outlines of the future, seen
In the deep distance, shadowy, undefined:
Then did I weep in very weariness
Of Earth, and wished, how longingly! to leave
This cheerless world, and having ceased to grieve,
For ever dwell in realms of blessedness!
Heaven hears the prayer, and hastes the boon to give,
The wasting victim sighs and prays—to live!—
1815.
156
SONNET.
[If I might chuse, where my tired limbs shall lie]
If I might chuse, where my tired limbs shall lieWhen my task here is done, the Oak's green crest
Shall rise above my grave—a little mound
Raised in some cheerful village-cemetery—
And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound,
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by—
In music—through the long soft twilight hours;—
And let the hand of her, whom I love best,
Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers,
In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest—
And should the robin, from some neighbouring tree,
Pour that dear song of her's—oh, softly tread,
For sure, if aught of Earth can soothe the Dead,
He still must love that pensive melody!
1815.
164
THE HARP.
ADDRESSED TO CLARA.
Clara, hast thou not often seen, and smiled,
A rosy child,
Deeming that none were near,
Touch, with a trembling hand,
Some fine-toned instrument,
Then gaze with sparkling eye, as on her ear
The murmurs died, like gales, that, having fanned
Soft summer flowers, sink spent;
Half-fearing, still she lingers,
Till o'er the strings again she flings
Less tremblingly her fingers!—
A rosy child,
Deeming that none were near,
Touch, with a trembling hand,
Some fine-toned instrument,
Then gaze with sparkling eye, as on her ear
The murmurs died, like gales, that, having fanned
Soft summer flowers, sink spent;
Half-fearing, still she lingers,
Till o'er the strings again she flings
Less tremblingly her fingers!—
165
But if a stranger eye
The timid sport should spy,
Oh then, with pulses wild,
This rosy child
Will throb, and fly,
Turn pale and tremble, tremble and turn red,
And in thy bosom hide her head!
The timid sport should spy,
Oh then, with pulses wild,
This rosy child
Will throb, and fly,
Turn pale and tremble, tremble and turn red,
And in thy bosom hide her head!
—Even thus the Harp to me
Hath been a play-thing strange,
A thing of fear, of wonder, and of glee,
Yet would I not exchange
This light Harp's simple gear, for all that Man holds dear;
And should the stranger's ear its tones regardless hear,
It still is sweet to thee!
Hath been a play-thing strange,
A thing of fear, of wonder, and of glee,
Yet would I not exchange
This light Harp's simple gear, for all that Man holds dear;
And should the stranger's ear its tones regardless hear,
It still is sweet to thee!
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