Poems By Edward Quillinan. With a Memoir by William Johnston |
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STANZAS
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75
STANZAS
[Deem not the Bard ungentle of his kind]
[_]
Written at Oporto, January, 1837, and addressed to the sister of Lieut. Robert Cockburn, of the Royal Artillery, who perished in the “Tigris” steamer, which sank in a hurricane on the Euphrates, a little below Annah, on the 21st of May, 1836.
Deem not the Bard ungentle of his kind,
Though due so long his promised tribute be,
Pure pearls of fancy are but hard to find,
And meaner gems are all unworthy Thee.—
Fain would I summon now the Muse of glee
To chant the pæan of the new-born year,
And give thee greeting: but, believe the plea,—
No Muse of joy will answer to my cheer,
Though Thou art one of those to Fancy's Daughters dear.
Though due so long his promised tribute be,
Pure pearls of fancy are but hard to find,
And meaner gems are all unworthy Thee.—
Fain would I summon now the Muse of glee
To chant the pæan of the new-born year,
And give thee greeting: but, believe the plea,—
No Muse of joy will answer to my cheer,
Though Thou art one of those to Fancy's Daughters dear.
I see a youthful Hebe-matron, clad
In raiment sacred to a stern distress,
And thoughts, that would be gay, perforce are sad,
To see her cheek, too, wear the mourner's dress,
The shade of sorrow, deepening loveliness;
The pensive trace of anguish that has past,
But with it taken from her life no less
Than youth's fond hope that ev'n on earth might last
Serene delights for them whose hopes on Heaven are cast.
In raiment sacred to a stern distress,
And thoughts, that would be gay, perforce are sad,
To see her cheek, too, wear the mourner's dress,
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The pensive trace of anguish that has past,
But with it taken from her life no less
Than youth's fond hope that ev'n on earth might last
Serene delights for them whose hopes on Heaven are cast.
Lady of Albyn, never northern flower,
Transplanted to a garden of the sun,
Found in the fervent south a fairer bower
Than Chance for Thee, by Taste directed, won,
Where Douro's waters near the ocean run;
There, rich in pleasures that the good esteem,
And far from revels that the happiest shun,
Thy lot, young wife and mother, well might seem
A proof that earthly joys were not indeed a dream.
Transplanted to a garden of the sun,
Found in the fervent south a fairer bower
Than Chance for Thee, by Taste directed, won,
Where Douro's waters near the ocean run;
There, rich in pleasures that the good esteem,
And far from revels that the happiest shun,
Thy lot, young wife and mother, well might seem
A proof that earthly joys were not indeed a dream.
Yet might thy distant home at times intrude
Its dearer image on the sunnier land;
Thy soul might hearken, in some anxious mood,
To well-known voices from a Scottish strand,
Though borne on softer gales than ever fann'd
The cheek of beauty on thy native shore:—
Then would thy spirit yearn till fancy's wand
Restored thee to that household hearth once more,
With all thy kinsmen there to greet thee as of yore.
Its dearer image on the sunnier land;
Thy soul might hearken, in some anxious mood,
To well-known voices from a Scottish strand,
Though borne on softer gales than ever fann'd
The cheek of beauty on thy native shore:—
Then would thy spirit yearn till fancy's wand
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With all thy kinsmen there to greet thee as of yore.
Perhaps among them, thy return to hail,
A soldier stood embrown'd by torrid skies,
Safe from the ocean-storm, the desert-gale,
The breaker's menace, and the shoal's surprise;
Safe from the savage foe in friendly guise,
The dank miasma, the sirocco's breath,
And every chance that lurks with evil eyes
To waste adventurous Errantry beneath
Its subtle glance malign, and mock his toils with death.
A soldier stood embrown'd by torrid skies,
Safe from the ocean-storm, the desert-gale,
The breaker's menace, and the shoal's surprise;
Safe from the savage foe in friendly guise,
The dank miasma, the sirocco's breath,
And every chance that lurks with evil eyes
To waste adventurous Errantry beneath
Its subtle glance malign, and mock his toils with death.
Perhaps that very month, that very day
Such home-wing'd thoughts from yon “Mirante” flew,
That very noon—while rich delicious May
Shower'd orange-odours on thy head, and threw
About thy feet bright buds of every hue:—
Heedless that Spring's aroma round thee breathed,
Perhaps even then, thy mind the portrait drew
Of one with visionary laurels wreath'd—
Alas, the soldier's sword for evermore was sheath'd!
Such home-wing'd thoughts from yon “Mirante” flew,
That very noon—while rich delicious May
Shower'd orange-odours on thy head, and threw
About thy feet bright buds of every hue:—
Heedless that Spring's aroma round thee breathed,
Perhaps even then, thy mind the portrait drew
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Alas, the soldier's sword for evermore was sheath'd!
Him (by those shores where Judah's captive daughters
On Babel's willows hung their harps and wept),
Him, even then, embark'd on fatal waters,
Down to their depths the Syrian vortex swept.—
Their gliding course two ships of Britain kept,
Bound on a desert-pilgrimage to Ind!
Fraught with a Band whose brave impatience stept
To strait conclusions; with the island-mind
That spurns its billowy chain, and marches unconfined.
On Babel's willows hung their harps and wept),
Him, even then, embark'd on fatal waters,
Down to their depths the Syrian vortex swept.—
Their gliding course two ships of Britain kept,
Bound on a desert-pilgrimage to Ind!
Fraught with a Band whose brave impatience stept
To strait conclusions; with the island-mind
That spurns its billowy chain, and marches unconfined.
No more round scowling Afric's stormy Cape,
Where Lusian Vasco led the Hope forlorn,
Need western messengers remotely shape
Their track to reach the birth-land of the Morn,—
For lo! a Power in the west is born
That, wingless, mocks the flight of winged ships,
And laughing old impediments to scorn,
Right to the goal, as Arab courser leaps,
Fleets o'er the iron lines, or steams along the deeps.
Where Lusian Vasco led the Hope forlorn,
Need western messengers remotely shape
Their track to reach the birth-land of the Morn,—
For lo! a Power in the west is born
That, wingless, mocks the flight of winged ships,
And laughing old impediments to scorn,
Right to the goal, as Arab courser leaps,
Fleets o'er the iron lines, or steams along the deeps.
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That giant-child of science, cradled on
Britannia's waves, the Band of Britons take
To grapple with the flood of Babylon;
At Bir, their Infant-Hercules they wake
To try his prowess on the Desert Snake. —
The dusky Bedouin, near his swarthier tent,
Saw vessels strange with stranger flag opaque
Of streaming vapour, lengthen'd as they went,
And watch'd the breathing omen, wondering what it meant;
Britannia's waves, the Band of Britons take
To grapple with the flood of Babylon;
At Bir, their Infant-Hercules they wake
To try his prowess on the Desert Snake. —
The dusky Bedouin, near his swarthier tent,
Saw vessels strange with stranger flag opaque
Of streaming vapour, lengthen'd as they went,
And watch'd the breathing omen, wondering what it meant;
Or horde of Arabs group'd beneath the shade
Of clustering date-trees, gazed with jealous ire;
Lords of the parchèd wastes, they saw, dismay'd,
Intruders leagued with their own flood and fire;
Their founts of naphtha with their streams conspire
To serve the white magicians from the West,
Who came, with charms and occult courses dire,
To force the burning wilds, perhaps to wrest
Their sway, in nature's right, by Ismael's sons possest.
Of clustering date-trees, gazed with jealous ire;
Lords of the parchèd wastes, they saw, dismay'd,
Intruders leagued with their own flood and fire;
Their founts of naphtha with their streams conspire
To serve the white magicians from the West,
Who came, with charms and occult courses dire,
To force the burning wilds, perhaps to wrest
Their sway, in nature's right, by Ismael's sons possest.
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Brave minds, at war with Time and Space they think
They now have made that River proud their slave,
Have made Euphrates the bimarian link
Of Persia's gulf and the Levantine wave!
But, when the current friendliest promise gave
He kept barbaric faith with his allies:
He bade them welcome, and prepared their grave,—
While they, rejoicing in their hard emprise,
Assured fruition saw with Valour's trusting eyes.
They now have made that River proud their slave,
Have made Euphrates the bimarian link
Of Persia's gulf and the Levantine wave!
But, when the current friendliest promise gave
He kept barbaric faith with his allies:
He bade them welcome, and prepared their grave,—
While they, rejoicing in their hard emprise,
Assured fruition saw with Valour's trusting eyes.
'Twas noon: the sun from his meridian quiver,
Pelted the waves with arrows, in his play;
The shallow ships, adown the olden river,
Skimm'd o'er Is Geria's reef their earnest way:—
At once, a rushing Midnight blacken'd Day!
Midnight! in sweltering sandy mantle clad,
Borne on the wings of winds that scented prey,
And storm'd the waters with their barkings glad:
The panting River heaved, and reel'd with joyance mad.
Pelted the waves with arrows, in his play;
The shallow ships, adown the olden river,
Skimm'd o'er Is Geria's reef their earnest way:—
At once, a rushing Midnight blacken'd Day!
Midnight! in sweltering sandy mantle clad,
Borne on the wings of winds that scented prey,
And storm'd the waters with their barkings glad:
The panting River heaved, and reel'd with joyance mad.
Blind Passion works its furious purpose fast;
'Twas but a transient fit of Nature's spleen;
Almost ere one could cry “it comes,” 'twas past,—
Light look'd again on that unalter'd scene;
The brushwood-banks of Annah were as green,
The sylvan isles as graceful as before;
The Babylonish River was serene
As if one hapless ship it lately bore
Lay not, a wreck ensnared, beneath its treacherous floor;
'Twas but a transient fit of Nature's spleen;
Almost ere one could cry “it comes,” 'twas past,—
Light look'd again on that unalter'd scene;
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The sylvan isles as graceful as before;
The Babylonish River was serene
As if one hapless ship it lately bore
Lay not, a wreck ensnared, beneath its treacherous floor;
As if its Arab gripe did never clutch,
And crush stout hearts within its fierce embrace;
Nor held, that moment, in its grasp so much
Of worth and daring that had toil'd to grace
A ruggèd enterprise, and earn a place
On Honour's lists.—They wrote their names in sand;
They penn'd their glory with a watery trace;
They reap'd the whirlwind, where they sought the bland
Rewards of ripe success for projects nobly plann'd.
And crush stout hearts within its fierce embrace;
Nor held, that moment, in its grasp so much
Of worth and daring that had toil'd to grace
A ruggèd enterprise, and earn a place
On Honour's lists.—They wrote their names in sand;
They penn'd their glory with a watery trace;
They reap'd the whirlwind, where they sought the bland
Rewards of ripe success for projects nobly plann'd.
And Thou—that gentle breast was sore assail'd,
When from thy vision of the bright May-morn
The flattering mist that soothed suspense exhaled,
And Hope, so oft to human love forsworn,
Show'd, through her orient veil abruptly torn,
The dull perspective of Ambition crost,
Of frustrate skill, of courage overborne;
And, in the midst of all, a Brother's ghost—
A Brother doubly dear because for ever lost.
When from thy vision of the bright May-morn
The flattering mist that soothed suspense exhaled,
And Hope, so oft to human love forsworn,
Show'd, through her orient veil abruptly torn,
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Of frustrate skill, of courage overborne;
And, in the midst of all, a Brother's ghost—
A Brother doubly dear because for ever lost.
No, not for ever! to thy constant faith
That hope at least in saintly trust is given;
For, those who tread like Thee the narrow path,
The arduous line of light that leads to Heaven,
With hopeless sorrow never yet have striven,
Nor known the heart's immedicable pain.—
O lady, if by mournful fancies driven
My verse has pierced a recent wound again,
Forgive the rash misdeed, forget the offending strain:
That hope at least in saintly trust is given;
For, those who tread like Thee the narrow path,
The arduous line of light that leads to Heaven,
With hopeless sorrow never yet have striven,
Nor known the heart's immedicable pain.—
O lady, if by mournful fancies driven
My verse has pierced a recent wound again,
Forgive the rash misdeed, forget the offending strain:
But no—the trembling sympathies that waken
Such strains, were never ministers of wrong:
To soothe the spirit though the heart be shaken
Is the emollient privilege of song:
Not with the griefs that all to pain belong
The mourner sits beneath the cypress tree
Whereon the melancholy lyre is hung
That turns to sighs the breeze's minstrelsy:
When tears to music flow their fall is anguish-free:
Such strains, were never ministers of wrong:
To soothe the spirit though the heart be shaken
Is the emollient privilege of song:
Not with the griefs that all to pain belong
The mourner sits beneath the cypress tree
Whereon the melancholy lyre is hung
That turns to sighs the breeze's minstrelsy:
When tears to music flow their fall is anguish-free:
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And thou hast listen'd to this verse of mine,
Although its melody in sooth be rude,
Not with the fever'd feelings that repine
At sorrow's violated solitude.
Thou still wouldst listen, if the theme pursued
Thy lonely kinsman, from his watery lair
Uplifted, (for the wave in milder mood
Resign'd its victim,) and by Christian care
Committed dust to dust—no kindred witness there;
Although its melody in sooth be rude,
Not with the fever'd feelings that repine
At sorrow's violated solitude.
Thou still wouldst listen, if the theme pursued
Thy lonely kinsman, from his watery lair
Uplifted, (for the wave in milder mood
Resign'd its victim,) and by Christian care
Committed dust to dust—no kindred witness there;
No Sire at hand; no Mother (half whose heart
Was yet there buried with her gallant boy);
Nor Brother, nor the Sister-counterpart
Of all his gentler qualities, stood nigh.
Nor, haply, ever shall a kinsman sigh
Over his sand-swathed reliques, far removed
From native scenes, from every social tie
Of Childhood, every haunt where first he proved
The blessèd charm of life, to love and be beloved.
Was yet there buried with her gallant boy);
Nor Brother, nor the Sister-counterpart
Of all his gentler qualities, stood nigh.
Nor, haply, ever shall a kinsman sigh
Over his sand-swathed reliques, far removed
From native scenes, from every social tie
Of Childhood, every haunt where first he proved
The blessèd charm of life, to love and be beloved.
A stone, 'twas all they could, his comrades rear'd
To mark his grave—Oblivion's desert shower
Will quench the dim memorial: but the endear'd
By worth ev'n in the grave retain a power
Tenacious over memory. The hour
Of doom, the fondliest-cherish'd blossom reaves,
But they who knew the sweetness of the flower
Store in their breasts the crush'd and wither'd leaves,
Whose root in earth is hid, whose essence Heaven receives.
To mark his grave—Oblivion's desert shower
Will quench the dim memorial: but the endear'd
By worth ev'n in the grave retain a power
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Of doom, the fondliest-cherish'd blossom reaves,
But they who knew the sweetness of the flower
Store in their breasts the crush'd and wither'd leaves,
Whose root in earth is hid, whose essence Heaven receives.
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