The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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| MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. |
 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
237
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
BABYLON,
WITH THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR.
Many a perilous age hath gone,
Since the walls of Babylon
Chained the broad Euphrates' tide,—
(Which the great king in his pride
Turned, and drained its channel bare)—
Since the Towers of Belus square
(Where the solid gates were hung
That on brazen hinges swung)
Mountain sized, arose so high
That their daring shocked the sky.
Since the walls of Babylon
Chained the broad Euphrates' tide,—
(Which the great king in his pride
Turned, and drained its channel bare)—
Since the Towers of Belus square
(Where the solid gates were hung
That on brazen hinges swung)
Mountain sized, arose so high
That their daring shocked the sky.
Famous city of the earth,
What magician gave thee birth?—
What great prince of sky or air
Built thy floating gardens fair?
—Thee the mighty hunter founded:
Thee the star-wise king surrounded
With thy mural girdle thick
Of the black bitumen brick,—
Belus, who was Jove, the God:
He who each bright evening trod
On thy marble streets, and came
Downwards like a glancing flame,
Love-allured, as fables tell.
But the last who loved thee well
Was the king whose amorous pride
(All to please his Median bride)
Fenced thee round and round so fast,
That, while the crumbling earth should last,
Thou, he thought, should be, and Time
Should not spoil thy look sublime.
What magician gave thee birth?—
What great prince of sky or air
Built thy floating gardens fair?
238
Thee the star-wise king surrounded
With thy mural girdle thick
Of the black bitumen brick,—
Belus, who was Jove, the God:
He who each bright evening trod
On thy marble streets, and came
Downwards like a glancing flame,
Love-allured, as fables tell.
But the last who loved thee well
Was the king whose amorous pride
(All to please his Median bride)
Fenced thee round and round so fast,
That, while the crumbling earth should last,
Thou, he thought, should be, and Time
Should not spoil thy look sublime.
He is gone, whose spirit spoke
To him in a golden dream:
He who saw the future gleam
On the present, and awoke
Troubled in his princely mind,
And bade his magicians blind
From their eyelids strip the scale,
And translate his hidden tale:—
He is gone: but ere he died,
He was tumbled from his pride,
From his Babylonian throne,
And cast out to feed alone,
Like the wild ox and the ass,
Seven years on the sprinkled grass.
—He is dead: his impious deeds
Are on the brass: but who succeeds?
To him in a golden dream:
He who saw the future gleam
On the present, and awoke
Troubled in his princely mind,
239
From their eyelids strip the scale,
And translate his hidden tale:—
He is gone: but ere he died,
He was tumbled from his pride,
From his Babylonian throne,
And cast out to feed alone,
Like the wild ox and the ass,
Seven years on the sprinkled grass.
—He is dead: his impious deeds
Are on the brass: but who succeeds?
Over Babylon's sandy plains
Belshazzar the Assyrian reigns.
A thousand Lords at his kingly call
Have met to feast in a spacious hall,
And all the imperial boards are spread,
With dainties whereon the monarch fed,—
Rich cates and floods of the purple grape:
And many a dancer's serpent shape
Steals slowly upon their amorous sights,
Or glances beneath the flaunting lights:
And fountains throw up their silver spray,—
And cymbals clash,—and the trumpets bray
Till the sounds in the arched roof are hung;
And words from the winding horn are flung:
And still the carved cups go round,
And revel and mirth and wine abound.
Belshazzar the Assyrian reigns.
A thousand Lords at his kingly call
Have met to feast in a spacious hall,
And all the imperial boards are spread,
With dainties whereon the monarch fed,—
Rich cates and floods of the purple grape:
And many a dancer's serpent shape
Steals slowly upon their amorous sights,
Or glances beneath the flaunting lights:
240
And cymbals clash,—and the trumpets bray
Till the sounds in the arched roof are hung;
And words from the winding horn are flung:
And still the carved cups go round,
And revel and mirth and wine abound.
But Night has o'ertaken the fading Day;
And Music has raged her soul away:
The light in the Bacchanal's eye is dim;
And faint is the Georgian's wild love-hymn.
“Bring forth”—(on a sudden spoke the king,
And hushed were the lords loud-rioting,)—
“Bring forth the vessels of silver and gold,
Which Nebuchadnezzar, my sire, of old
Ravished from proud Jerusalem;
And we and our Queens will drink from them.”
And the vessels are brought, of silver and gold,
Of stone, and of brass, and of iron old,
And of wood, whose sides like a bright gem shine,
And their mouths are all filled with the sparkling wine.
Hark!—the king has proclaimed with a stately nod,
“Let a health be drank out unto Baal, the God.”—
They shout and they drink:—but the music moans,
And hushed are the reveller's loudest tones:
For a hand comes forth, and 'tis seen by all
To write strange words on the plastered wall!
—The mirth is over;—the soft Greek flute
And the voices of women are low—are mute:
The Bacchanals' eyes are all staring wide:
And where's the Assyrian's pomp of pride?—
—That night the monarch was stung to pain.
That night Belshazzar, the king, was slain!—
—Many a silent age the prow
And Music has raged her soul away:
The light in the Bacchanal's eye is dim;
And faint is the Georgian's wild love-hymn.
“Bring forth”—(on a sudden spoke the king,
And hushed were the lords loud-rioting,)—
“Bring forth the vessels of silver and gold,
Which Nebuchadnezzar, my sire, of old
Ravished from proud Jerusalem;
And we and our Queens will drink from them.”
And the vessels are brought, of silver and gold,
Of stone, and of brass, and of iron old,
And of wood, whose sides like a bright gem shine,
And their mouths are all filled with the sparkling wine.
Hark!—the king has proclaimed with a stately nod,
241
They shout and they drink:—but the music moans,
And hushed are the reveller's loudest tones:
For a hand comes forth, and 'tis seen by all
To write strange words on the plastered wall!
—The mirth is over;—the soft Greek flute
And the voices of women are low—are mute:
The Bacchanals' eyes are all staring wide:
And where's the Assyrian's pomp of pride?—
—That night the monarch was stung to pain.
That night Belshazzar, the king, was slain!—
Of untiring Time—(dividing
Years and days, and ever gliding
Onwards) has passed by:—And now,
Where's thy wealth of streets and towers?
Where thy gay and dazzling hours?
Where thy crowds of slaves,—and things
That fed on the rich breath of kings?
Where thy laughter-crowned times?—
242
In the shadow of thy name
Dwelling, like a ghost unseen;
Grander than if laurels green
Or the massy gold were spread,
Crown-like, upon thy great head:
Mighty in thy own undoing,
Drawing a fresh life from ruin
And eternal prophecy:—
Thou art gone, but cannot die.
Like a splendour from the sky
Through the silent ether flung,
Like a hoar tradition hung
Glittering in the ear of Time,
Thou art,—like a lamp sublime,
Telling from thy wave-worn tower
Where the raging floods have power,
How ruin lives,—and how Time flies,—
And all that on the dial lies.
243
A WAR SONG.
Are the white snows which crown thy hills untrodden,
Are thy sons valiant still,—thy daughters pure,
Ceraunia?—or hath War, which makes the world
Blush in its blood, stained all thy hills and valleys?
Awake! The Turk is coming:—from his den
Where he once slept, lustful, intemperate,
He comes mad as the sea, and blind with hate.
Awake! Bare all your weapons till their light
Dazzles the sky, now sick with coming woe.
Awake! The Turk is on your heart. Awake!—
Are thy sons valiant still,—thy daughters pure,
Ceraunia?—or hath War, which makes the world
Blush in its blood, stained all thy hills and valleys?
Awake! The Turk is coming:—from his den
Where he once slept, lustful, intemperate,
He comes mad as the sea, and blind with hate.
Awake! Bare all your weapons till their light
Dazzles the sky, now sick with coming woe.
Awake! The Turk is on your heart. Awake!—
Awake! 'tis the terror of war;
The Crescent is tossed on the wind;
But our flag flies on high like the perilous star
Of the battle. Before and behind,
Wherever it glitters, it darts
Bright death into tyrannous hearts.
The Crescent is tossed on the wind;
But our flag flies on high like the perilous star
Of the battle. Before and behind,
Wherever it glitters, it darts
Bright death into tyrannous hearts.
244
Who are they that now bid us be slaves?
They are foes to the good and the free:
Go bid 'em first fetter the might of the waves;
The Sea may be conquered,—but we
Have spirits untameable still,
And the strength to be free,—and the will.
They are foes to the good and the free:
Go bid 'em first fetter the might of the waves;
The Sea may be conquered,—but we
Have spirits untameable still,
And the strength to be free,—and the will.
The Helots are come: In their eyes
Proud hate and fierce massacre burn,
They hate us,—but shall they despise?
They are come;—shall they ever return?
O God of the Greeks! from thy throne
Look down, and we'll conquer alone.
Proud hate and fierce massacre burn,
They hate us,—but shall they despise?
They are come;—shall they ever return?
O God of the Greeks! from thy throne
Look down, and we'll conquer alone.
The world has deserted our need:
The eagle is prey to the hound;—
It may be; but first we will battle and bleed,
And when we have crimsoned the ground,
We'll shout at the slaves of the earth,
And die,—'tis the chance of our birth.
The eagle is prey to the hound;—
It may be; but first we will battle and bleed,
And when we have crimsoned the ground,
We'll shout at the slaves of the earth,
And die,—'tis the chance of our birth.
245
Our fathers,—each man was a god,
His will was a law, and the sound
Of his voice like a spirit's was worshipped: he trod,
And thousands fell worshippers 'round:
From the gates of the West to the Sun
He bade, and his bidding was done.
His will was a law, and the sound
Of his voice like a spirit's was worshipped: he trod,
And thousands fell worshippers 'round:
From the gates of the West to the Sun
He bade, and his bidding was done.
And We—shall we die in our chains,
Who once were as free as the wind?
Who is it that threatens,—who is it arraigns?
Are they princes of Europe or Ind?
Are they kings to the uttermost pole?—
They are dogs, with a taint on their soul.
Who once were as free as the wind?
Who is it that threatens,—who is it arraigns?
Are they princes of Europe or Ind?
Are they kings to the uttermost pole?—
They are dogs, with a taint on their soul.
Away!—Though our glory has fled,
For a time, and Thermopylæ's past;
Let us write a new name in the blood of our dead,
And again be as free as the blast.
The lion, he reigns as of yore:
Shall the Greek be a slave?—and no more?
For a time, and Thermopylæ's past;
Let us write a new name in the blood of our dead,
And again be as free as the blast.
The lion, he reigns as of yore:
Shall the Greek be a slave?—and no more?
246
Away! for the fight may be ended
Before you arrive at your fame.
Your fathers the land and their dwellings defended,
And left them to you—with a name,
Oh! keep it: it sounds like a charm:
It will guard you from terror, from harm.
Before you arrive at your fame.
Your fathers the land and their dwellings defended,
And left them to you—with a name,
Oh! keep it: it sounds like a charm:
It will guard you from terror, from harm.
For our life,—it is nothing,—a span:
'Tis the body, and Fame is the heart.
Is there one who rejects the bright lot of a man?
Let him be the last to depart:
Let him die on his pillow, a slave,—
For us, We have conquered the grave.
'Tis the body, and Fame is the heart.
Is there one who rejects the bright lot of a man?
Let him be the last to depart:
Let him die on his pillow, a slave,—
For us, We have conquered the grave.
247
SONNET.
A STILL PLACE.
Under what beechen shade, or silent oak,Lies the mute sylvan now,—mysterious Pan?
Once (while rich Peneus and Ilissus ran
Clear from their fountains)—as the morning broke,
'Tis said, the Satyr with Apollo spoke,
And to harmonious strife, with his wild reed,
Challenged the God, whose music was indeed
Divine, and fit for Heaven.—Each play'd, and woke
Beautiful sounds to life, deep melodies:
One blew his pastoral pipe with such nice care,
That flocks and birds all answer'd him; and one
Shook his immortal showers upon the air.
—That music hath ascended to the sun;
But where the other?—Speak! ye dells and trees!
248
SONNET.
TO THE SKY-LARK.
O earliest singer! O care-charming bird!Married to morning, by a sweeter hymn
Than priest e'er chaunted from his cloister dim,
At midnight,—or veil'd virgin's holier word
At sun-rise or the paler evening heard;
To which of all Heaven's young and lovely Hours,
Who wreathe soft light in hyacinthine bowers,
Beautiful spirit, is thy suit preferr'd?
—Unlike the creatures of this low dull earth,
Still dost thou woo, although thy suit be won;
And thus thy mistress bright is pleased ever.
Oh! lose not thou this mark of finer birth;—
So may'st thou yet live on, from sun to sun,
Thy joy uncheckd, thy sweet song silent never.
| The Flood of Thessaly | |