The Two Brothers, and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I stood beside the waters—and at night—
The voice of thousands now at last was still;
Silent the streets, and the wan moon's pale light
Fell silently upon the waters chill.
Ah! silence there—strange visions seem to fill
My desolate spirit—for I stood the last,
I, the lone lingerer by the lonely hill:
The stars wept night-dews, and the fitful blast,
Whispering of other years, beside me moan'd and pass'd.

268

II

I leant and mused. Beneath the midnight sky,
Stretch'd in dim outline, rose those turrets grey:
Like wave-worn monuments, where passers by
Linger, and dream of ages pass'd away,
They stood in silence. Strangely wild were they;
For Silence hath unto herself a spell:
She hath a syren voice; and like the play
Of winds on crystal waters, she can tell
Of regions all her own, where dream-like fancies dwell.

III

And led by her I dreamt, and saw, methought,
The time when yonder waters roll'd between
No walls and granite turrets, but, untaught,
Through the oak forest and the woodland green
Flow'd, kissing every floweret. Wild the scene:
For Britons roam'd along the tangled shore
With happy hearts, and bold unfearing mien;
Their war-songs sang they the blue waters o'er,
In all things Freedom's children, hers erelong no more.

269

IV

Heard ye the eagle swooping? Nursed in pride,
Rome's blood-stain'd armies sought these shores, and flung
Her tyrant banners o'er the reckless tide:
The waves dash'd on, but bitter chains were hung
Round freemen's necks: a nation's heart was wrung!
Few, few, and weary, see them wending slow,
Fair girls and hoary warriors, old and young,
To brave an exile's lot, an exile's woe,
Far from their native hearths on Cambria's wilds of snow.

V

Then rose, as legends tell, yon turrets, piled
By the proud victor to enchain the free;
Swiftly they rose,—but oh! when morning smiled
First on those towers from out the golden sea,
Where Rome's proud eagle, Britain, mock'd at thee,
Who could have guess'd the dark and wondrous story
Of things that have been there and yet shall be?
Written too oft in letters deeply gory—
A captive's tale of tears, yet bright with deeds of glory.

270

VI

Like one who bending o'er the waves that sleep
'Mid Tyre's old fabled battlements descries
Their faint dim outline in the silent deep,
Till in the shadowy light before his eyes
Dome after dome begins ere long to rise;—
Thus the far landscape of the past we scan,
And wondrous seem and dark its mysteries,
Till truth hath lit Time's strangely-pictured plan,
And ah! yet stranger still, the passionate heart of man.

VII

And when I stood beside that hoary pile
Its legends rose like phantoms of the tomb:
Spell-bound I linger'd there, and mused awhile
On every tower and spirit-haunted room;
Mused o'er the cells of Hope's untimely doom,

271

And the yet drearier vaulted caves below,
Where heaven's pure light ne'er trembled through the gloom;
Some with their tale of wonder, some of woe—
Here where the heart might throb, and there where tears might flow.

VIII

Methought I saw two happy children lying,
Lock'd in each other's arms, at dead of night,
Peace smiled beside, but Love stood o'er them sighing:—
And I heard stealthy footsteps treading light—
List!—steps of murderers?—never! for that sight
Must break a heart of marble: yet 'tis done,—
Low smother'd groans too truly told aright
As one they lived and loved, they died as one—
None there to save them? weeping Echo answers “None.”

IX

Yet childhood is a sunny dream, and we
Can scarcely mourn when it doth pass away.

272

Unclouded to heaven's sunshine; and to me
Those towers where wingèd spirits day by day
Have lived unmurmuring on to life's decay
Seem yet more strangely sad:—and such was thine,
O thou whose far keen eyesight won its way
O'er Time's drear ages, till there seem'd to shine
Across the starless gulf Truth's glorious arch divine.

X

Man scales the mountain-tops, but o'er the mist
The eagle hovering seeks its native sky,
And the free clouds still wander where they list,
And still the waves are tameless. Thus on high
Thy thoughts at pleasure could take wing and fly,
Though fetter'd were thy limbs, and thus didst thou
Visit each clime and age with wandering eye,
And win a fadeless garland for thy brow,
And free with wisdom's freedom, deign to her to bow.

273

XI

A sadder turret, minstrel, bids thee linger,
And weave a sadder strain for her that's gone:
O gently touch thy chords with sorrow's finger,
Nor let thy music without tears flow on.
Low from that tower she lean'd, while yet there shone
The rosy blush of evening in her cell;
Her eye was raised to heaven, her look was wan
And on her bosom tears full quickly fell,—
Sad tribute to her land, its dying child's farewell.

XII

“Oh! other were the dreams,” she weeping cried,
“That rose and smiled upon mine infant years!
Bright were they in their freshness—all have died—
My fancied garlands were but gemm'd with tears,
My starry guide a meteor, and mine ears
Caught but false syren strains; yet, frail and young,
I deem'd that star a light of other spheres,
Snatch'd at the wreath, drank in the illusive song,
And now, to-morrow ... hush! my throbs will cease ere long.

274

XIII

“To-morrow—'tis a strange and fearful call—
To-morrow's eve and I shall be no more.
Yet why so fearful unto me? We all
Are voyaging towards a distant shore,
Toss'd on life's fitful billows, whose wild roar
Drowns the far music of our heavenly home:
A few more surging waves to traverse o'er,
Some little stormy wind, some billowy foam,
And I have gain'd my bourn—oh! ne'er again to roam.”

XIV

That morrow came; the young and lovely one
Was led where soon her mangled corse should lie:
There, breaking hearts and stifled sighs—and none
Look'd without tears on her blue tearless eye.
Yet seem'd she all too beautiful to die,
Ere love and gladness from her cheek had flown:—
Fond dreamer! knowest thou not the happy sky
Claims first the loveliest flowerets for its own?
Heaven's nurslings, lent to earth as exiled plants alone.

275

XV

I mused in sadness, for methought there fell
Her smile on me, her loveliest, her last.
But hark! the watchword of the sentinel.
Changed were my dreams—yon nightly turrets cast
Upon my soul the image of the past;
And many were the thoughts, and wild and wide,
Echoing of thee, my country, 'mid the blast—
There have thy monarchs fought, thy chieftains died,
And queenly hearts for thee throbb'd high with hero pride.

XVI

Time-honour'd Towers! whence ever floated free
Old England's banners over hearts as bold!
Within whose walls the sceptre of the sea
Lies by the sword of mercy—where is told
The thrilling tale o'er many a trophy old,
Where diadems rest, and helm and spear are piled,
And standards in a thousand fights unroll'd,
Oh there the heart must lose itself, and wild
Will be its wandering-song—of vision'd dreams the child.

276

XVII

I look'd upon thy walls when day was closing,
Mighty and vast they rose upon the sight,
In massive grandeur silently reposing:
List! 'tis the hush of evening—dimly bright
The moon just glimmer'd, and the listless night
Was brooding over wave and tower sublime,
When suddenly there gleam'd a fatal light
Amid those frowning ramparts—'twas the time
When all things slumber on, and nigh the midnight chime.

XVIII

But hark! the crash of timbers—then the hush
Of breathless whispering rose, and the red glow
Grew momently more vivid, and the rush
Of hurrying footsteps echoed to and fro—
And like a dream it pass'd of flames and woe.
I look'd upon thy walls when morn was riding
In sunshine o'er the rosy hills, and lo!
Amid the wreck, like spectres unabiding,
Glory and Desolation hand in hand were gliding.

277

XIX

The heart must catch at omens, and must weave
From passing meteors dreams of hope or fear!
And some, my country, speak a mournful eve
Of thy long day of glory. Far and near
The storm-clouds, brooding round thy skirts appear;
And wailings, as of winds through woods, are heard:
And hangs, like death, the heavy atmosphere:
And smitten as with some prophetic word
The strong foundations of the earth are moved and stirr'd.

XX

The nations are disquieted, the heart
Of princes ill at ease: the fearful bow
Their heads and tremble: with hush'd voice apart
The mighty stand, with pale though dauntless brow,
Asking of every hour—“What bringest thou?”
And if a murmur whisper through the sky
They hush their breath, and cry, “It cometh now.”
What cometh? Stay—it heeds thee not to fly,
Unknown, though on its way—unseen, yet surely nigh.

278

XXI

But who shall dare, though storms are round thy way,
To write upon thy banners, Ichabod?
Thy strength is not in ramparts built of clay,
Nor in thy fearless children, who have trod
The waves as proudly as their native sod;
But heavenly watchers aye have guarded thee—
God is thy refuge, and thy rampart God.
Here lies thy might, His arm thy trust shall be
Amid the wildest storms of Time's untravell'd sea.

Trinity College, 1844.

The ruins of Tyre are said to be seen under the waves.

Sir Walter Raleigh, who during his long imprisonment wrote his immortal “History of the World.”

Lady Jane Grey.

“The glory is departed.”