 | The Poems of Charles Wolfe |  |
1
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
The exact date at which the poem was written has never been precisely fixed. But it must have been composed considerably earlier than the date—Sept. 6, 1816— of the copy in the poet's handwriting reproduced in this volume by permission of the Royal Irish Academy. A letter printed by Archdeacon Russell in a note to the ninth edition of the Remains (p. 20) gives the approximate date. Wolfe's college friend Charles Dickinson, Bishop of Meath, writing on Aug. 28, 1841, then stated as follows:—“I distinctly remember that I read to Hercules Graves, Charles Wolfe's poem on Sir John Moore—in my rooms No. 5 in college. This must have been between March 21, 1812, and December 23, 1815; for it was during that time that I resided in those rooms.”
I
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
II
We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
III
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
IV
Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we stead fastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
2
V
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
VI
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
VII
But half of our heavy task was done,When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
VIII
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—
But we left him alone with his glory!
3
SONG.
[If I had thought thou could'st have died]
Archdeacon Russell gives the following account of the genesis of this poem:—
“Another of his—Wolfe's—favourite melodies was the popular Irish air ‘Gramachree.’ He never heard it without being sensibly affected by its deep and tender expression; but he thought that no words had ever been written for it which came up to his idea of the peculiar pathos which pervades the whole strain. He said they all appeared to him to want individuality of feeling. At the desire of a friend he gave his own conception of it in these verses, which it seems hard to read, perhaps impossible to hear sung, without tears. He was asked whether he had any real incident in view, or had witnessed any immediate occurrence which might have prompted these lines. His reply was, he had not, but that he had sung the air over and over till he burst into a flood of tears, in which mood he composed the words.” —Wolfe's Remains, 9th edition, pp. 34 and 36.
I
If I had thought thou could'st have died,I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou could'st mortal be:
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou should'st smile no more!
II
And still upon that face I look,And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!
But when I speak—thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
4
III
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,All cold, and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in the grave—
And I am now alone!
IV
I do not think, where'er thou art,Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!
5
SONG.
[Go, forget me—why should sorrow]
Archdeacon Russell states that this song “was written at the request of a lady of high professional character as a musician, for an air of her own composition, which I believe was never published.”—Remains, 9th, edition, p. 36.
I
Go, forget me—why should sorrowO'er that brow a shadow fling?
Go, forget me—and to-morrow
Brightly smile and sweetly sing.
Smile—though I shall not be near thee;
Sing—though I shall never hear thee;
May thy soul with pleasure shine
Lasting as the gloom of mine!
Go, forget me, etc.
II
Like the Sun, thy presence glowingClothes the meanest things in light;
And when thou, like him, art going,
Loveliest objects fade in night.
All things looked so bright about thee,
That they nothing seem without thee;
By that pure and lucid mind
Earthly things were too refined.
Like the Sun, etc.
6
III
Go, thou vision wildly gleaming,Softly on my soul that fell;
Go, for me no longer beaming—
Hope and Beauty! fare ye well!
Go, and all that once delighted
Take, and leave me all benighted:
Glory's burning—generous swell,
Fancy and the Poet's shell.
Go, thou vision, etc.
7
THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY.
I
I must tune up my harp's broken string,For the fair has commanded the strain;
But yet such a theme will I sing,
That I think she'll not ask me again:
II
For I'll tell her—Youth's blossom is blown,And that Beauty, the flower, must fade;
(And sure if a lady can frown,
She'll frown at the words I have said.)
III
The smiles of the rose-bud how fleet!They come—and as quickly they fly:
The violet how modest and sweet!
Yet the Spring sees it open and die.
IV
How snow-white the lily appears!Yet the life of a lily's a day;
And the snow that it equals, in tears
To-morrow must vanish away.
V
Ah, Beauty! of all things on earthHow many thy charms most desire!
8
And Beauty with Youth must expire.
VI
Ah, fair ones! so sad is the tale,That my song in my sorrow I steep;
And where I intended to rail,
I must lay down my harp, and must weep.
VII
But Virtue indignantly seizedThe harp as it fell from my hand;
Serene was her look, though displeased,
As she uttered her awful command.
VIII
“Thy tears and thy pity employFor the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain,—
But those who my blessings enjoy
Thy tears and thy pity disdain.
IX
“For Beauty alone ne'er bestowedSuch a charm as Religion has lent,
And the cheek of a belle never glowed
With a smile like the smile of content.
X
“Time's hand, and the pestilence-rage,No hue, no complexion can brave;
For Beauty must yield to old age,
But I will not yield to the grave.”
9
FAREWELL TO LOUGH BRAY.
Then fare thee well!—I leave thy rocks and glens,And all thy wild and random majesty,
To plunge amid the world's deformities,
And see how hideously mankind deface
What God hath given them good:—while viewing thee,
I think how grand and beautiful is God,
When man has not intruded on his works,
But left his bright creation unimpaired.
'Twas therefore I approached thee with an awe
Delightful,—therefore eyed, with joy grotesque—
With joy I could not speak; (for on this heart
Has beauteous Nature seldom smiled, and scarce
A casual wind has blown the veil aside,
And shown me her immortal lineaments,)
'Twas therefore did my heart expand, to mark
Thy pensive uniformity of gloom,
The deep and holy darkness of thy wave,
And that stern rocky form, whose aspect stood
Athwart us, and confronted us at once,
Seeming to vindicate the worship due,
10
As if secure the homage would be paid:
It looked the genius of the place, and seemed
To superstition's eye, to exercise
Some sacred, unknown function.—Blessed scenes!
Fraught with primeval grandeur! or if aught
Is changed in thee, it is no mortal touch
That sharpened thy rough brow, or fringed thy skirts
With coarse luxuriance:—'twas the lightning's force
Dashed its strong flash across thee, and did point
The crag: or, with a stormy thunderbolt,
Th' Almighty architect himself disjoined
Yon rock; then flung it down where now it hangs,
And said, “Do thou lie there;”—and genial rains
(Which e'en without the good man's prayer came down)
Called forth thy vegetation.—Then I watched
The clouds that coursed along the sky, to which
A trembling splendour o'er the waters moved
Responsive; while at times it stole to land,
And smiled among the mountain's dusky locks.
Surely there linger beings in this place
For whom all this is done:—it cannot be
11
For such wild wayward pilgrims as ourselves.
Haply some glorious spirits here await
The opening of heaven's portals; who disport
Along the bosom of the lucid lake;
Who cluster on that peak; or playful peep
Into yon eagle's nest; then sit them down
And talk to those they left on earth, and those
Whom they shall meet in heaven; and, haply tired,
(If blessed spirits tire in such employ,)
The slumbering phantoms lay them down to rest
Upon the bosom of the dewy breeze.—
Ah! whither do I roam—I dare not think—
Alas! I must forget thee; for I go
To mix with narrow minds and hollow hearts—
I must forget thee—fare thee, fare thee well!
12
SONG.
[Oh say not that my heart is cold]
I
Oh say not that my heart is coldTo aught that once could warm it—
That Nature's form so dear of old
No more has power to charm it;
Or that th' ungenerous world can chill
One glow of fond emotion
For those who made it dearer still,
And shared my wild devotion.
II
Still oft those solemn scenes I viewIn rapt and dreamy sadness;
Oft look on those who loved them too
With fancy's idle gladness;
Again I longed to view the light
In Nature's features glowing;
Again to tread the mountain's height,
And taste the soul's o'erflowing.
13
III
Stern Duty rose, and frowning flungHis leaden chain around me;
With iron look and sullen tongue
He muttered as he bound me—
“The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven,
Unfit for toil the creature;
These for the free alone are given,—
But what have slaves with Nature?”
14
SPANISH SONG.
“He was so much struck by the grand national Spanish air, ‘Viva el Rey Fernando,’ the first time he heard it played by a friend, that he immediately commenced singing it over and over again, until he produced an English song admirably suited to the tune. The air, which has the character of an animated march, opens in a strain of grandeur, and suddenly subsides, for a few bars, into a slow and pathetic modulation, from which it abruptly starts again into all the enthusiasm of martial spirit. The words are happily adapted to these transitions, but the air should be known, in order that the merits of the song should be duly esteemed. The first change in the expression of the air occurs at the ninth line of the song, and continues to the end of the twelfth line.”—Wolfe's Remains, 9th edition, p. 30.
The chains of Spain are breaking—
Let Gaul despair, and fly;
Her wrathful trumpet's speaking—
Let tyrants hear, and die.
Let Gaul despair, and fly;
Her wrathful trumpet's speaking—
Let tyrants hear, and die.
Her standard o'er us arching
Is burning red and far;
The soul of Spain is marching
In thunders to the war.—
Look round your lovely Spain,
And say shall Gaul remain?—
Is burning red and far;
The soul of Spain is marching
In thunders to the war.—
Look round your lovely Spain,
And say shall Gaul remain?—
Behold yon burning valley—
Behold yon naked plain—
Let us hear their drum—
Let them come, let them come!
For vengeance and freedom rally,
And Spaniards! onward for Spain!
Behold yon naked plain—
Let us hear their drum—
Let them come, let them come!
For vengeance and freedom rally,
And Spaniards! onward for Spain!
Remember, remember Barossa—
Remember Napoleon's chain—
Remember your own Saragossa,
And strike for the cause of Spain—
Remember your own Saragossa,
And onward, onward for Spain!
Remember Napoleon's chain—
Remember your own Saragossa,
And strike for the cause of Spain—
Remember your own Saragossa,
And onward, onward for Spain!
15
SONG.
[Oh my love has an eye of the softest blue]
I
Oh my love has an eye of the softest blue,Yet it was not that that won me;
But a little bright drop from her soul was there—
'Tis that that has undone me.
II
I might have passed that lovely cheek,Nor, perchance, my heart have left me;
But the sensitive blush that came trembling there,
Of my heart it for ever bereft me.
III
I might have forgotten that red, red lip—Yet how from the thought to sever?
But there was a smile from the sunshine within,
And that smile I'll remember for ever.
IV
Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay,The elegant form that haunts me—
'Tis the gracefully delicate mind that moves
In every step, that enchants me.
16
V
Let me not hear the nightingale sing,Though I once in its notes delighted:
The feeling and mind that comes whispering forth
Has left me no music beside it.
VI
Who could blame had I loved that face,Ere my eye could twice explore her?
Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there,
And her warm, warm heart I adore her.
17
TO A FRIEND.
These lines are addressed to Wolfe's college friend George Grierson, the brother of the young lady to whom the poet was attached, and who inspired “Oh, my love has an eye of the softest blue.” Grierson, according to a tradition preserved by his descendants, had written some verses beginning—
“My own home, my own home!
There's no place like my own home.”
There's no place like my own home.”
His showing them to Wolfe suggested these verses.
I
My own friend—my own friend!There's no one like my own friend;
For all the gold
The world can hold
I would not give my own friend.
II
So bold and frank his bearing, boy,Should you meet him onward faring, boy,
In Lapland's snow
Or Chili's glow,
You'd say “What news from Erin, boy?”
III
He has a curious mind, boy—'Tis jovial—'tis refined, boy—
'Tis richly fraught
With random thought,
And feelings wildly kind, boy.
IV
'Twas eaten up with care, boy,For circle, line, and square, boy—
18
That genius thrived
Upon such drowsy fare, boy.
V
But his heart that beat so strong, boy,Forbade her slumber long, boy—
So she shook her wing,
And with a spring
Away she bore along, boy.
VI
She wavers unconfined, boy,All wayward on the wind, boy,
Yet her song
All along
Was of those she left behind, boy.
VII
And we may let him roam, boy,For years and years to come, boy;
In storms and seas—
In mirth and ease,
He'll ne'er forget his home, boy.
VIII
O give him not to wear, boy,Your rings of braided hair, boy—
Without this fuss
He'll think of us—
His heart—he has us there, boy.
19
IX
For what can't be undone, boy,He will not blubber on, boy—
He'll brightly smile,
Yet think the while
Upon the friend that's gone, boy.
X
O saw you his fire-side, boy,And those that round it bide, boy,
You'd glow to see
The thrilling glee
Around his fire-side, boy.
XI
Their airy poignant mirth, boy,From feeling has its birth, boy;
'Tis worth the groans
And all the moans
Of half the dolts on earth, boy.
XII
Each soul that there has smiled, boy,Is Erìn's native child, boy—
A woodbine flower
In Erin's bower,
So elegant, so wild, boy.
XIII
The surly clouds that roll, boy,Will not for storms console, boy;
20
So tenderly bright
That softens and cheers the soul, boy.
XIV
I'd ask no friends to mourn, boy,When I to dust return, boy—
No breath of sigh,
Or brine of eye
Should gather round my urn, boy.
XV
I just would ask a tear, boy,From every eye that's there, boy;
Then a smile each day,
All sweetly gay,
My memory should repair, boy.
XVI
The laugh that there endears, boy—The memory of your years, boy—
Would more delight
Your hovering sprite
Than half the world's tears, boy.
22
THE CONTRAST.
LINES WRITTEN WHILE STANDING UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE.
I
I saw him once on the Terrace proud,Walking in health and gladness,
Begirt with court, and in all the crowd
Not a single look of sadness;
Bright was the sun and the trees were green,
Blithely the birds were singing,
The cymbal replied to the tambourine
And the bells were merrily ringing.
II
I stood at the grave beside his bier,When not a word was spoken,
But every eye was dim with a tear,
And the silence by sobs was broken.
The time since he walked in his glory thus
To the grave till I saw him carried,
Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him of night unvaried.
23
III
For his eyes were sealed and his mind was dark,And he sat, in his age's lateness,
Like a vision enthroned as a solemn mark
Of the frailty of human greatness.
A daughter beloved, a Queen, a Son,
And a son's sole child, have perished,
And it saddened each heart, save his alone
By whom they were fondest cherished.
IV
We have fought the fight. From his lofty throneThe foe to our land we tumbled,
And it gladdened each heart, save his alone
For whom that foe was humbled:
His silver beard o'er a bosom spread
Unvaried by life's emotion,
Like a yearly lengthening snowdrift shed
On the clam of a frozen ocean.
V
Still o'er him Oblivion's waters lay,Though the tide of life kept flowing;
When they spoke of the King, 'twas but to say,
“The old man's strength is going.”
At intervals thus the waves disgorge,
By weakness rent asunder,
A piece of the wreck of the Royal George,
For the people's pity and wonder.
24
VI
He is gone at length—he is laid in dust,Death's hand his slumber breaking;
For the coffined sleep of the good and just
Is a sure and certain waking;
The people's heart is his funeral urn,
And should sculptured stone be denied him,
There will his name be found, when in turn
We lay our heads beside him.
25
ON HEARING “THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.”
“The Last Rose of Summer” had a great charm for Wolfe. Archdeacon Russell prints (Remains, pp. 32-34) a striking prose idyll, “The Grave of Dermid,” written by Wolfe “as an introduction to this song.”
I
That strain again! It seems to tellOf something like a joy departed;
I love its mourning accents well,
Like voice of one, ah! broken-hearted.
II
That note that pensive dies away,And can each answering thrill awaken,
It sadly, wildly, seems to say,
Thy meek heart mourns its truth forsaken.
III
Or there was one who never moreShall meet thee with the looks of gladness,
When all of happier life was o'er,
When first began thy night of sadness.
IV
Sweet mourner, cease that melting strain,Too well it suits the grave's cold slumbers;
Too well—the heart that loved in vain
Breathes, lives, and weeps in those wild numbers.
26
SONNET.
[My spirit's on the mountains, where the birds]
My spirit's on the mountains, where the birds
In wild and sportive freedom wing the air,
Amidst the heath flowers and the browsing herds,
Where nature's altar is, my spirit's there.
It is my joy to tread the pathless hills,
Though but in fancy—for my mind is free
And walks by sedgy ways and trickling rills,
While I'm forbid the use of liberty.
In wild and sportive freedom wing the air,
Amidst the heath flowers and the browsing herds,
Where nature's altar is, my spirit's there.
It is my joy to tread the pathless hills,
Though but in fancy—for my mind is free
And walks by sedgy ways and trickling rills,
While I'm forbid the use of liberty.
This is delusion—but it is so sweet
That I could live deluded. Let me be
Persuaded that my springing soul may meet
The eagle on the hills—and I am free.
Who'd not be flattered by a fate like this?
To fancy is to feel our happiness.
That I could live deluded. Let me be
Persuaded that my springing soul may meet
The eagle on the hills—and I am free.
Who'd not be flattered by a fate like this?
To fancy is to feel our happiness.
27
A BIRTH-DAY POEM.
Oh have you not heard of the harp that layThis morning across the pilgrim's way—
The wayward youth that loved to wander
By twilight lone up the mountain yonder?
How that wild harp came there not the wisest can know,
It lay silent and lone on the mountain's brow;
The eagle's down on the strings that lay
Proved he there had awaited the dawning ray;
But no track could be seen, not a footstep was near,
Save the course of the hare o'er the strings in fear,—
And ah! no minstrel is here to be seen
On our mountain's brow, or our valleys green;
And if there were, he had missed full soon
His wild companion so sweet and boon.—
While the youth stood gazing on aghast,
The wind it rose strong, and the wind it rose fast,
Quick on the harp it came swinging, swinging—
Then away through the strings it went singing, singing.
28
That the eagle hung breathless upon his cloud;
And away through the strings the wind it went sweeping,
Till the spirit awoke, that among them was sleeping—
It awoke, it awoke:
It spoke, it spoke—
“I am the spirit of Erin's might,
That brightened in peace, and that nerved her in fight—
The spirit that lives in the blast of the mountain,
And tunes her voice to the roll of the fountain—
The spirit of giddy and frantic gladness—
The spirit of most heart-rending sadness—
The spirit of maidens weeping on
Wildly, tenderly—
The spirit of heroes thundering on
Gloriously, gloriously;—
And though my voice is seldom heard,
Now another's song's preferred,
I tell thee, stranger, I have sung
Where Tara's hundred harps have rung—
And I have rode by Brien's side,
Rolling back the Danish tide—
And know each echo long and slow
Of still—romantic Glendalough;
Though now my song but seldom thrills,
Lately a stranger awakened me;
29
A pilgrim for my minstrelsy.—
But come—more faintly blows the gale,
And my voice begins to fail—
Pilgrim, take this simple lyre—
And yet it holds a nation's fire—
Take it, while with me 'tis swelling,
To your stately lowland dwelling—
There she dwells—my Erin's maid—
In her charming native shade;
I have placed my stamp upon her,
Erin's radiant brow of honour;
Spirits lambent—heart that's glowing—
Mind that's rich, and soul o'erflowing;
She moves with her bounding mountain-grace,
And the light of her heart is in her face:
Tell the maid—I claim her mine—
For Erin it is hers to shine;
And, that she still increase her store
Of intellect and fancy's lore,
That I demand from her a mind
Solid, brilliant, strong, refined;
And that she prize a patriot's fire,
Beyond what avarice can desire;
And she must pour a patriot's song
Her romantic hills along.”—
Her name is Constance—
Constance—Faintly died
The blast upon the mountain side,
30
And now the murmuring sound is hushed,—
Yet sweetly, sweetly, Constance rung
On the faltering spirit's tongue—
Speak again, the youth, he cried,—
But no faltering sprite replied;
Wild harp, wild harp,
To Constance I will take thee—
Wild harp, wild harp,
She perhaps will wake thee.
31
PATRIOTISM.
Angels of glory! came she not from you?Are there not patriots in the heaven of heavens?
And hath not every seraph some dear spot—
Throughout th'expanse of worlds some favourite home—
On which he fixes with domestic fondness?
Doth not e'en Michael on his seat of fire,
Close to the footstool of the throne of God,
Rest on his harp awhile, and from the face
And burning glories of the Deity
Loosen his riveted and raptured gaze,
To bend one bright, one transient downward glance,
One patriot look upon his native star?
Or do I err?—and is your bliss complete,
Without one spot to claim your warmer smile,
And e'en an angel's partiality?
And is that passion, which we deem divine,
Which makes the timid brave, the brave resistless,—
Makes men seem heroes,—heroes, demigods—
A poor, mere mortal feeling?—No! 'tis false!
The Deity himself proves it divine;
32
He was himself a Patriot!—to the earth—
To all mankind a Saviour was he sent,
And all he loved with a Redeemer's love;
Yet still, his warmest love, his tenderest care,
His life, his heart, his blessings, and his mournings,
His smiles, his tears, he gave to thee, Jerusalem—
To thee, his country!—Though, with a prophet's gaze
He saw the future sorrows of the world;
And all the miseries of the human race,
From age to age, rehearsed their parts before him;
Though he beheld the fall of gasping Rome,
Crushed by descending Vandals; though he heard
The shriek of Poland, when the spoilers came;
Though he saw Europe in the conflagration
Which now is burning, and his eye could pierce
The coming woes that we have yet to feel;—
Yet still, o'er Sion's walls alone he hung;
Thought of no trench but that round Sion cast;
Beheld no widows mourn, but Israel's daughters;
Beheld no slaughter but of Judah's sons—
On them alone the tears of Heaven he dropped;
Dwelt on the horrors of their fall—and sighed,
“Hadst thou but known, even now in this thy day,
33
Hadst thou, O hadst thou known, Jerusalem!”—
Yet well he knew what anguish should be his
From those he wept for; well did he foresee
The scourge—the thorns—the cross—the agony;
Yet still, how oft upon thy sons he laid
The hands of health; how oft beneath his wing
Thy children would have gathered, O Jerusalem!—
Thou art not mortal—thou didst come from Heaven,
Spirit of patriotism! thou art divine!
Then, seraph! where thy first descent on earth?
Heaven's hallelujahs, for what soul abandoned?—
Close by the side of Adam, ere he woke
Into existence, was thy hallowed stand;
On Eden and on thee his eyes unclosed;
For say,—instead of wisdom's sacred tree,
And its sweet fatal fruit, had Heaven denied
His daily visit to his natal spot,—
Say, could our father boast one day's obedience?—
And wherefore, Eden, when he passed for ever
Thy gates, in slow and silent bitterness,—
Why did he turn that look of bursting anguish
Upon thy fruits, thy groves, thy vales, thy fountains,
And why inhale with agonising fervour
The last—last breeze that blew from thee upon him?—
34
Thy groves were music—and thy fountains, health—
Thy breezes, balm—thy valleys, loveliness;
But that they were the first his ear, eye, taste,
Or smell, or feeling had perceived or tasted,
Heard, seen, inhaled;—because thou wert his country!
Yes, frail and sorrowing sire, thy sons forgive thee!
True, thou hast lost us Eden and its joys,
But thou hast suffered doubly by the loss!
We were not born there—it was not our country!
O holy Angel! thou hast given us each
This substitute for Paradise; with thee,
The vale of snow may be our summer walk;
The pointed rock, the bower of our repose;
The cataract, our music; while, for food,
Thy fingers, icy-cold, perhaps may pluck
The mountain-berry; yet, with thee, we'll smile—
Nor shiver when we hear that Father Adam
Once lived in brighter climes, on sweeter food.—
But, ah! at least to this our second Eden
Permit no artful serpent to approach;
Let no foul traitor grasp at fruits which thou
Hast interdicted; and no sword of flame
Flash forth despair, and wave us to our exile.
Yet, rather than that I should rise in shame
Upon my country's downfall, or should draw
35
Rather than that I should approach her walls,
Like Caius Marcius, with her foes combined,
Or turn, like Sylla, her own sons upon her,—
Let me sit down in silence by thy side
Upon the banks of Babylon,—and weep,
When we remember all that we have lost.
Nor shall we always on the stranger's willow
Allow our harp in sorrow to repose;
But when thy converse has inspired my soul,
Roused it to frenzy, taught me to forget
Distance, and time, and place, and woe, and exile,
And I no more behold Euphrates' bank,
And hear no more the clanking of my fetters,—
Then in my fervours, shalt thou snatch thy harp,
And strike me one of Sion's loftiest songs,
Until I pour my soul upon the notes—
Deep from my heart—and they shall waft it home.
O Erin! O my mother! I will love thee!
Whether upon thy green, Atlantic throne,
Thou sitt'st august, majestic, and sublime;
Or on thy empire's last remaining fragment,
Bendest forlorn, dejected, and forsaken,—
Thy smiles, thy tears, thy blessings, and thy woes,
Thy glory and thy infamy, be mine!
36
With Deborah's notes thy triumphs would I sing—
Would weep thy woes with Jeremiah's tears;
But for a warning voice, which, though thy fall
Had been begun, should check thee in mid-air—
Isaiah's lips of fire should utter, Hold!—
Not e'en thy vices can withdraw me from thee;—
Thy crimes I'd shun—thyself would still embrace!
For e'en to me Omnipotence might grant
To be the “tenth just man,” to save thee, Erin!—
And when I leave thee, should the lowest seat
In Heaven be mine,—should smiling mercy grant
One dim and distant vision of its glories,—
Then if the least of all the blest can mix
With Heaven one thought of earth,—I'll think of thee.
37
JUGURTHA INCARCERATUS, VITAM INGEMIT RELICTAM.
Well—is the rack prepared—the pincers heated?Where is the scourge? How!—not employed in Rome?
We have them in Numidia. Not in Rome?
I'm sorry for it; I could enjoy it now;—
I might have felt them yesterday; but now,—
Now I have seen my funeral procession;
The chariot-wheels of Marius have rolled o'er me:
His horses' hoofs have trampled me in triumph,—
I have attained that terrible consummation
My soul could stand aloof, and from on high
Look down upon the ruins of my body,
Smiling in apathy; I feel no longer;
I challenge Rome to give another pang.—
Gods! how he smiled, when he beheld me pause
Before his car, and scowl upon the mob;
The curse of Rome was burning on my lips,
And I had gnawed my chain, and hurled it at them,
But that I knew he would have smiled again,—
A king! and led before the gaudy Marius,
38
As if I had been conquered; while each street,
Each peopled wall, and each insulting window,
Pealed forth their brawling triumphs o'er my head.
Oh! for a lion from thy woods, Numidia!—
Or had I, in that moment of disgrace,
Enjoyed the freedom but of yonder slave,
I would have made my monument in Rome.
Yet am I not that fool, that Roman fool,
To think disgrace entombs the hero's soul,—
For ever damps his fires and dims his glories;
That no bright laurel can adorn the brow
That once has bowed; no victory's trumpetsound
Can drown in joy the rattling of his chains;
No;—could one glimpse of victory and vengeance
Dart preciously across me, I could kiss
Thy footstep's dust again; then all in flame,
With Massinissa's energies unquenched,
Start from beneath thy chariot-wheels, and grasp
The gory laurel reeking in my view,
And force a passage through disgrace to glory—
Victory! Vengeance! Glory!—Oh, these chains!
My soul's in fetters, too; for, from this moment,
Through all eternity I see but—death;
To me there's nothing future now, but death:
39
So then—Numidia's lost; thosedaring projects—
(Projects that ne'er were breathed to mortal man,
That would have startled Marius on his car,)
O'erthrown, defeated! What avails it now
That my proud views despised the narrow limits
Which minds that span and measure out ambition
Had fixed to mine; and, while I seemed intent
On savage subjects and Numidian forests,
My soul had passed the bounds of Africa!
Defeated, overthrown! yet to the last
Ambition taught me hope, and still my mind,
Through danger, flight, and carnage, grasped dominion;
And had not Bocchus—curses, curses on him!—
What Rome has done, she did it for ambition;
What Rome has done, I might—I would have done;
What thou hast done, thou wretch!—Oh had she proved
Nobly deceitful! had she seized the traitor,
And joined him with the fate of the betrayed,
I had forgiven her all; for he had been
The consolation of my prison hours;
I could forget my woes in stinging him;
And if, before this day, his little soul
Had not in bondage wept itself away,
40
Look here, thou caitiff, if thou canst, and see
The fragments of Jugurtha; view him wrapt
In the last shred he borrowed from Numidia;
'Tis covered with the dust of Rome; behold
His rooted gaze upon the chains he wears,
And on the channels they have wrought upon him;
Then look around upon his dungeon walls,
And view yon scanty mat, on which his frame
He flings, and rushes from his thoughts to sleep. Sleep!
I'll sleep no more, until I sleep for ever:
When I slept last, I heard Adherbal scream.
I'll sleep no more! I'll think until I die:
My eyes shall pore upon my miseries,
Until my miseries shall be no more.—
Yet wherefore did he scream? Why, I have heard
His living scream,—it was not half so frightful.
Whence comes the difference? When the man was living,
Why, I did gaze upon his couch of torments
With placid vengeance, and each anguished cry
Gave me stern satisfaction. Now he's dead,
And his lips move not; yet his voice's image
Flashed such a dreadful darkness o'er my soul,
I would not mount Numidia's throne again,
41
Oh, yes, 'twas I that caused that living one,
And therefore did its echo seem so frightful.
If 'twere to do again, I would not kill thee;
Wilt thou not be contented?—But thou say'st,
“My father was to thee a father also;
He watched thy infant years, he gave thee all
That youth could ask, and scarcely manhood came
Than came a kingdom also; yet didst thou”—
Oh, I am faint!—they have not brought me food—
How did I not perceive it until now?
Hold,—my Numidian cruse is still about me—
No drop within—Oh, faithful friend! companion
Of many a weary march and thirsty day,
'Tis the first time that thou hast failed my lips.—
Gods! I'm in tears!—I did not think of weeping.
Oh, Marius, wilt thou ever feel like this?—
Ha! I behold the ruins of a city;
And on a craggy fragment sits a form
That seems in ruins also; how unmoved,
How stern he looks! Amazement, it is Marius!
Ha! Marius, think'st thou now upon Jugurtha?
He turns! he's caught my eye! I see no more!
42
BATTLE OF BUSACO; DELIVERANCE OF PORTUGAL.
The breeze sighed sadly o'er the midnight flood;On Lisbon's towers Don Henry's spirit stood;
He wore not helm, he wore not casque; his hair
Streamed like a funeral banner in the air;
In mournful attitude, with aspect drear,
He held reversed his country's guardian spear;
Dark was his eye and gloomy was his brow,
He gazed with sternness on the wave below;
Then thrice aloft the deathful spear he shook,
While sorrow's torrent from his bosom broke:—
“Friends! may the angel of destruction shed
This blood-red cup of horrors on your head!
Throughout your camp may hell-born demons play,
Grin ruin to your host, and howl dismay!
Was it for this, dear, desolated shore!
I taught proud Commerce here her gifts to pour,
Allured from fairer Italy the maid,
And here the ground-works of the empire laid?
Is there a bolt to mortal guidance given?—
Where are the thundering delegates of Heaven?—
43
And blood-red Anarchy her flag has reared,
Rolled round her gorgon eyes from native France,
And petrified the nations with a glance;
Affrighted Italy her blasted vines
Has dropped, and Spain let fall her orange lines,
And tough Teutonic forests, though they broke
Awhile her force, yet yielded to the stroke.
Where shall I turn, where find the free, the brave,
A heart to pity, and an arm to save?
To Britain, glorious Britain, will I call,
Her bulwark, valour,—and the sea, her wall.
Around her crest Gaul's javelins idly play,
And glance with baffled impotence away;
Her hands the reddening bolts of vengeance bear,
Fate's on her helm, and death upon her spear;
She scorns at Victory's shrine her vows to pay;
She grasps the laurel, she commands the day.
England, what! ho!”—as thus the spectre spoke,
All Lisbon's turrets to their bases shook:—
“England, what! ho!”—again the spectre cried,
And trembling Tagus heaved with all his tide,—
“England, to arms!—at this dread call, advance!
Assist, defend, protect!—now tremble, France”!—
44
And Tagus wrapt him in his billowy vest.
O'er seas, o'er shores the solemn summons passed,
It rode upon the pinions of the blast.
The midnight shades are gone, the glooms are fled,
See! the dawn broke as Britain reared her head!
With Albion's spear upon her shield she smote;
Through every island rung the inspiring note.
Roused at the sound, the English lion rose,
And burnt to meet hereditary foes;
From Highland rocks came every Scottish clan;
Forward rushed Erin's sons, and led the van.
The Usurper shook,—then sent each chief of name,
Partners of Victory, sharers of his fame,
Who bore Gaul's standard through the hostile throng,
While Lodi trembled as they rushed along;
Who traversed Egypt's plains and Syria's waste,
And left a red memorial where they passed;
Who bathed, 'midst French and Austrian heaps of slain,
Their gory footsteps on Marengo's plain:
And those who laid the Prussian glories low,
Yet felt a Brunswick's last expiring blow;
Who on Vimeira's heights were taught to feel,
The vengeful fury of a freeman's steel;
45
And purchased dear experience by defeat.
Such were the chiefs that Gaul's battalia led;—
Yet England came, they met her, and they fled.
At dark Busaco's foot stood France's might,
The hopes of Britain occupied the height.
Gaul's mantling terrors to the summit tend,—
Hold, Britain, charge not,—the attack suspend;—
Hushed be the British whirlwind,—not a breath
Be heard within thy host,—be still as death!—
With gathering gloom comes France's dark array,—
Rest, Britain, on thy arms,—thy march delay—
See! France has gained the summit of the hill!
See! she advances! Soldier, yet be still—
She's at our bayonets,—touches every gun,—
Now speed thee, England! and the work is done.—
Now where is France?—Yon mountain heap of dead,
Yon scattered band, will tell you how they sped;
The dying groan, the penetrating yell,
May tell how quick she sunk, how soon she fell;
Her sons are gone, her choicest blood is spilt,
Her brightest spear is shivered to the hilt.
Nor ceased they here; but from the mountain height
Tempestuous Britain rolls to meet the fight,
Pours the full tide of battle o'er the plain,
46
The vanquished squadrons dread an added loss;
They skulk behind the rampart and the fosse;—
Why lingers Wellesley? Does he fear their force?
Dreads he their foot, or trembles at their horse?
Alas! by hands unseen he deals the blow,
By hands unseen he prostrates every foe.
One night—(and France still shudders at that night,
Pregnant with death, with horror, and affright;)
One night—on plans of victory intent,
A spy into the hostile camp he sent;
It was a wretch, decrepit, shrivelled, wild,—
A haggard visage that had never smiled;
The miscreant's jaws were never seen to close,
The miscreant's eyes had never known repose:—
Swift to the Gallic camp she sped her way,
And Britain's soldiers, ere the dawn of day,
Heard through the hostile tents her footstep's tread;—
For Famine—raging Famine claimed her dead!
With frantic haste they fled the fatal post,
Long boldly held—now miserably lost;
Dismay, confusion through the rout appear,
Victorious Britain hangs upon their rear.
No, sweet Humanity! I dare not tell,
How infants bled, how mothers, husbands fell;
47
The mother gave when Gaul her infant took,—
Took, and while yet the cherub's smile was fresh,
Pierced its fair limbs and tore its baby-flesh;—
I dare not paint the wife's transporting woe,
When sunk her husband by Massena's blow.—
Hear, thou dread warrior! hear, thou man of blood!
Hear, thou with female, infant gore imbrued!
When sinking in the horrors of the tomb,
The avenging angel shall pronounce thy doom—
When war's loud yell grows faint, the drum's dead roll
Strikes languid, and more languid on the soul—
When Britain's cannons may unheeded roar,
And Wellesley's name has power to fright no more,—
Yon widow's shrieks shall pierce thee till thou rave,
And form a dread artillery in the grave!
Heard ye that burst of joy? From Beira's coast
To Algarva's southern boundaries it crost;
It passed from undulating Tagus' source,
And burst where Guadiana holds his course.
“Farewell! proud France! (they cried) thy power is broke;
Farewell for ever to thy iron yoke!
But blest for ever be old Ocean's queen,
48
When on these plains our future offspring gaze,
To them our grateful heart shall sound thy praise.
To Britain's generous aid these plains we owe,
For us she drew the sword, and bent the bow.
We sunk, we crouched beneath a tyrant's hand—
Victorious Britain loosed the usurper's hand.
We bowed to France, obeyed each stern decree,—
Majestic Britain rose—and all was free.”
49
JUVENILE POEMS
THE RAISING OF LAZARUS.
Silent and sad, deep gazing on the clay,Where Lazarus breathless, cold, and lifeless lay,
The Saviour stood: he dropped a heavenly tear,
The dew of pity from a soul sincere:
He heaved a groan!—though large his cup of woe,
Yet still for others' grief his sorrows flow;
He knew what pains must pierce a sister's heart,
When death had sped his sharpest, deadliest dart,
And seized a brother's life. Around they stand,
Sisters and friends, a weeping, mournful band:—
His prayer he raises to the blest abode,
And mercy bears it to the throne of God:
“Lord! thou hast always made thy Son thy care,
Ne'er has my soul in vain preferred its prayer;
Hear now, O Father! this thy flock relieve,—
Dry thou their tears, and teach them to believe
Thy power the sinking wretch from death can save,
And burst the iron fetters of the grave:—
50
And death's deep slumbers in a moment broke:
Fate hears astonished,—trembles at the word,
And nature yields, o'ercome by nature's Lord.
Light peeps with glimmering rays into his eyes;
With lingering paces misty darkness flies;
The pulse slow vibrates through the languid frame,
The frozen blood renews the vital flame;
His body soon its wonted strength regains,
And life returning rushes to his veins.—
They look! they start! they look!—'tis he, 'tis he!
They see him,—and yet scarce believe they see!
On Him—on Him they turn their thankful eyes,
From whom such wondrous benefits arise:
On Him they look, who, God and Man combined,
Joined mortal feelings with a heavenly mind:
On Him their warm collected blessings poured;
As Man, they loved Him—and as God, adored.
51
PRIZE POEM. ON THE DEATH OF ABEL.
In youthful dignity and lovely grace,With heaven itself reflected on his face,
In purity and innocence arrayed,
The perfect work of God was Abel made.
To him the fleecy charge his sire consigned:
An angel's figure with an angel's mind,
In him his father every blessing viewed,
And thought the joys of Paradise renewed.
But stern and gloomy was the soul of Cain;
A brother's virtue was the source of pain;
Malice and hate their secret wounds impart,
And envy's vulture gnaws upon his heart:
With discontented hand he turned the soil,
And inly grieving, murmured o'er his toil.
Each with his offering to the Almighty came,
Their altars raised, and fed the sacred flame.
Scarce could the pitying Abel bear to bind
A lamb, the picture of his Master's mind;
Which to the pile with tender hand he drew,
And wept, as he the bleating victim slew.
Around, with fond regard the zephyr played
Nor dared disturb th' oblation Abel made.
52
The Lord received them,—for his heart was true.
His first-reaped fruits indignant Cain prepares,—
But vain his sacrifice and vain his prayers,—
For all were hollow: God and nature frowned,
The wind dispersed them, and the Lord disowned.
He looks behind—what flames around him rise?
“O hell! 'tis Abel's, Abel's sacrifice!
Curst, hated sight! another look would tear
My soul with rage, would plunge me in despair!
Still must each wish that Abel breathes be heard;
Still must I see his suit to mine preferred!
Still must this darling of creation share
His parents' dearest love, his Maker's care;
But Cain is doomed his sullen hate to vent—
Is doomed his woes in silence to lament:—
Why should the sound of Abel sound more dear,
More sweet than Cain's unto my father's ear?
Each look, that once on me with pleasure glowed,
Each kiss, each smile, on Abel is bestowed.
He loves me, views me with sincere delight;
Yet, yet I hate him, yet I loathe his sight!
But why detest him? why do I return
Hate for his love,—his warm affection spurn?
Ah! vain each effort, vain persuasion's art,
While rancour's sting is festering in my heart!”
53
Nor love could bind, nor reason could assuage,
Young Abel came; he marked his sullen woe,
Nor in the brother could discern the foe.
As down his cheeks the generous sorrow ran,
He gazed with fondness, and at length began:
“Why lowers that storm beneath thy clouded eye?
Why wouldst thou thus thy Abel's presence fly?
Turn thee, my brother! view me laid thus low,
And smooth the threat'ning terrors of thy brow.
Have I offended? is my fault so great,
That truth and friendship cannot change thy hate?
Then tell me, Cain, O tell me all thy care;
O cease thy grief, or let thy Abel share.”
No tears prevail: his passions stronger rise;
Increasing fury flashes from his eyes;
At once, each fiend around his heartstrings twines,—
At once, all hell within his soul combines,
“Ah serpent!”—At the word he fiercely sprung,
Caught th' accursed weapon, brandished, swung,
And smote! the stroke descended on his brow;
The suppliant victim sunk beneath the blow:
The streaming blood distained his locks with gore—
Those beauteous tresses that were gold before:
Nor could his lips a deep-drawn sigh restrain;
54
His dying eyes a look of pity cast,
And beamed forgiveness, ere they closed their last.
The murderer viewed him with a vacant stare,—
Each thought was anguish, and each look despair.
“Abel, awake! arise!” he trembling cried;
“Abel, my brother!”—but no voice replied.
At every call more madly wild he grew,
Paler than he whom late in rage he slew.
In frightful silence o'er the corse he stood,
And chained in terror, wondered at the blood.
“Awake! yet oh! no voice, no smile, no breath!
O God, support me! O should this be death!
O thought most dreadful! how my blood congeals!
How every vein increasing horror feels!
How faint his visage, and how droops his head!
O God, he's gone!—and I have done the deed!”
Pierced with the thought, the fatal spot he flies,
And, plunged in darkness, seeks a vain disguise.
Eve, hapless Eve! 'twas thine these woes to see,
To weep thy own, thy children's misery!
She, all unconscious, with her husband strayed
To meet her sons beneath their favourite shade:
To them the choicest fruits of all her store,
Delightful task! a pleasing load she bore.
55
Lo! Abel, breathless, weltering on the ground!
She shrieked his name—'twas all that she could say,
Then sunk, and lifeless as her Abel lay.
Not long the trance could all her senses seal,
She woke too soon returning woe to feel.
Those lips, that once gave rapture to her breast,
Now cold in death, the afflicted mother pressed.
Fixed in the silent agony of woe
The father stood, nor comfort could bestow.
Weep, wretched father! hopeless mother, weep!
A long, long slumber Abel's doomed to sleep!
Wrapped in the tangling horrors of the wood,
The murderer sought to fly himself and God.
Night closed her welcome shades around his head,
But angry conscience lashed him as he fled.
“Here stretch thy limbs, thou wretch! O may this blast
Bear death, and may this moment be thy last!
May blackest night eternal hold her reign;
And may the sun forget to light the plain!
Ye shades, surround me! darkness hide my sin!
'Tis dark without, but darker still within.
O Abel! O my brother! could not all
Thy love for me preserve thee from thy fall!
Why did not Heaven avert that deadly blow,
That dreadful, hated wound, that laid thee low!
56
And every maddening demon is in arms:
The voice of God, the curse of Heaven I hear;
The name of murdered Abel strikes my ear,
Rolls in the thunder, rustles in the trees,
And Abel! Abel! murmurs in the breeze.
Still fancy scares me with his dying groan,
And clothes each scene in horrors not its own.
Curst be that day, the harbinger of woes,
When first my mother felt a mother's throes;
When sweetly smiling on my infant face,
She blest the firstling of a future race.
O Death! thou hidden, thou mysterious bane!
Can all thy terrors equal living pain?—
Yet still there lies a world beyond the grave,
From whence no death, no subterfuge can save.
Thou, God of Vengeance! these my sufferings see,—
To all the God of Mercy, but to me!
O soothe the tortures of my guilty state,—
Great is thy vengeance, but thy mercy great.
My brother! thou canst see how deep I grieve;
Look down, thou injured angel, and forgive!
Far hence, a wretched fugitive, I roam,
The earth my bed, the wilderness my home.
Far hence I stray from these delightful seats,
To solitary tracts, and drear retreats.
Yet ah! the very beasts will shun my sight,
Will fly my bloody footsteps with affright.
57
Detested only for that crime is Cain.
Had I but lulled each fury of my soul,
Had held each rebel passion in control,
To nature and to God had faithful proved,
And loved a brother as a brother loved,—
Then had I sunk into a grave of rest,
And Cain had breathed his last on Abel's breast!”
| The Poems of Charles Wolfe | |