 | Poems |  |
TO MY BELOVED FATHER,
WITHOUT WHOSE SANCTION AND PERMISSION
THESE THOUGHTS WOULD NOT HAVE SO EARLY LEFT
THE RETIREMENT OF KINDRED AND FRIENDLY CIRCLES,
THIS VOLUME OF POEMS AND HYMNS, WRITTEN, MANY OF THEM,
IN THE HAPPY HOME OF CHILDHOOD, Is Dedicated,
WITH THE WARMEST LOVE AND ADMIRATION, BY HIS AFFECTIONATE SON.
17
THE EARTHQUAKE.
Σεβας δ' αμαχον, αδαματον, απολεμον το πριν
Νυν αφισταται.
—Æsch. Choe.
Νυν αφισταται.
—Æsch. Choe.
Two years have fleeted, and almost a third,
Since thus the image of the Present (calm
It seem'd, yet was not) interwove itself
With my wild, wayward musings; till enlink'd
To truths that change not, Time's tumultuous sea
For once in the clear mirror of my soul
Lay changeless. Fool! to dream that passionate waves
Could, infant-like, forget their wrath so soon
And lull themselves into eternal sleep.
Fool! to forget that under-voice “no peace”
Of storms prophetic amid calm. Once more
It fell upon my spirit's slumbers—fell
Like sudden thunder on a mariner
Who sleeps at midnight: look'd I forth once more
With eager thought, yet tranquil, for my soul
Was anchor'd now upon a rock that lay
Fast rooted in the Eternity of truth,
And deep as heaven's foundations. What, if still
Cold dashing waters in the depths of ocean
Sweep o'er it and about, far, far above
My vessel rode securely o'er the waves,
And in tranquillity and rest I look'd
Forth on the untranquil, restless flood of the world.
Since thus the image of the Present (calm
It seem'd, yet was not) interwove itself
With my wild, wayward musings; till enlink'd
To truths that change not, Time's tumultuous sea
For once in the clear mirror of my soul
Lay changeless. Fool! to dream that passionate waves
Could, infant-like, forget their wrath so soon
And lull themselves into eternal sleep.
Fool! to forget that under-voice “no peace”
Of storms prophetic amid calm. Once more
It fell upon my spirit's slumbers—fell
18
Who sleeps at midnight: look'd I forth once more
With eager thought, yet tranquil, for my soul
Was anchor'd now upon a rock that lay
Fast rooted in the Eternity of truth,
And deep as heaven's foundations. What, if still
Cold dashing waters in the depths of ocean
Sweep o'er it and about, far, far above
My vessel rode securely o'er the waves,
And in tranquillity and rest I look'd
Forth on the untranquil, restless flood of the world.
In sooth, my spirit's peace was not of earth;
Or else the sudden shock of change and ruin
That met mine eyes had shaken my whole frame
As if with earthquake. Desolate and vast
The homes of millions sigh'd: and sulphurous clouds
Hung over them, from whence at intervals
Sharp lightnings flooded heaven with gusts of flame;
The stars were struck with blindness; and the sea
Roar'd; and the earth, as with volcanic fires,
Labour'd, and moan'd, and shook exceedingly.
Woe for the sons of men! woe, when the earth,
Whereon their hopes are builded as on rock,
The eldest, firmest, solidest of things,
Trembles as smitten with the curse of God.
Woe, woe! for baseless as a fabric built
Of clouds, and transient as they, are fears
Less deep than hell, and hopes less high than heaven.
Ay, for the earth may shudder, and the stars
Fall, as a fig-tree, swept of mighty winds,
Casts her untimely figs, and truth that rests
Upon the word of God stand forth, alone
Eternal amid perishable things.
Or else the sudden shock of change and ruin
That met mine eyes had shaken my whole frame
As if with earthquake. Desolate and vast
The homes of millions sigh'd: and sulphurous clouds
Hung over them, from whence at intervals
Sharp lightnings flooded heaven with gusts of flame;
The stars were struck with blindness; and the sea
Roar'd; and the earth, as with volcanic fires,
Labour'd, and moan'd, and shook exceedingly.
19
Whereon their hopes are builded as on rock,
The eldest, firmest, solidest of things,
Trembles as smitten with the curse of God.
Woe, woe! for baseless as a fabric built
Of clouds, and transient as they, are fears
Less deep than hell, and hopes less high than heaven.
Ay, for the earth may shudder, and the stars
Fall, as a fig-tree, swept of mighty winds,
Casts her untimely figs, and truth that rests
Upon the word of God stand forth, alone
Eternal amid perishable things.
The sharp shock of the earthquake ceased. Mine eye
Fell where the thunder of its ruin and wreck
Seem'd loudest, on the guilty land of France.
And,—as a scene of sunset glory plays
Delusively before us, though the sun
Be sunk, and wintry darkness clouding heaven—
A moment on my spirit's eye there flash'd
A dream of bygone hours:—a monarch throned
On arms and proud ambition, and the will
(Of fickle, frail foundations, frailest this)—
A people's shifting will, who scoff'd to own
The fountain of all kingly power in God.
Poor man! yet seem'd he throned securely:—long
His fate hung o'er him ere it fell, and long
The earthquake slumber'd under ere it came.
Long years he reign'd: his gilded sceptre sway'd
Pale crowds of flattering menials, men who swore
Allegiance, and innumerable throngs
Of warriors, and a Godless multitude
Whose god was Pleasure, and the lawless fires
Of dastard men whom sin alone inspired
With boldness, and a few heroic souls
Who pray'd and wept o'er that they saw and heard
In solitude, and many aching hearts.
Long years he reign'd: the assassin's hand in vain;
Was raised against him often times, but still
God's mightier hand was o'er him: and the floods
Of evil chafed and toss'd themselves in vain
The hour of their unloosing was not come;
And God reserved him for no common fall.
Long years he reign'd: and with the liberal hand
Of kingly friendship woo'd alliances
With distant courts, if only he might stay
His throne with strength, and crown his children's brows.
Nor lack'd he arms, or armies, or brave fleets,
Nor bulwarks lack'd, nor any thing but God.
But in the prime of glory, when his heart
Spake peace unto itself and tranquil age,
What time his kingly throne the kingliest shew'd,
Then came the voice from heaven, “There is no peace;”
And straightway a convulsive trembling shook
The ground whereon his throne was planted—none
Might save him then—earth shudder'd, and the heavens
Frown'd: fearfulness besieged and storm'd
His spirit, deem'd impregnable till now.
A few wild, unavailing struggles—fool!
As well go struggle to erect thy throne
Upon the Alpine avalanche—and all
Pass'd like a fugitive dream. They who had sworn
To live and die beside him, where were they?
Where were his courtly friends, his dastard troops,
His statesmen, and his warriors, and his peers?
Where were his loving subjects, where was France?
Was it they scoff'd a power that came of man,
And not of God? was it a viewless Hand
Withheld them? was it that they crouch'd with fear?
None raised a hand; none moved a foot; none spake;—
The earthquake palsied every arm and blanch'd
All faces pale, and drain'd all hearts of blood.
And like a fugitive dream it pass'd: his throne
Lay shatter'd in the dust, his palaces
Were ransack'd by a foul, infuriate crowd;
His armies struck a strange and traitorous league
With robbers and with murderers, and call'd
Them brethren; and his darling capital
Became a den of lawlessness and guilt
And devils, under semblance of control;
And trembled with dark memories of the past,
Dark bodings of the future, wild despair,
And wild, insensate hopes of golden bliss.
Fell where the thunder of its ruin and wreck
Seem'd loudest, on the guilty land of France.
And,—as a scene of sunset glory plays
Delusively before us, though the sun
Be sunk, and wintry darkness clouding heaven—
A moment on my spirit's eye there flash'd
A dream of bygone hours:—a monarch throned
On arms and proud ambition, and the will
20
A people's shifting will, who scoff'd to own
The fountain of all kingly power in God.
Poor man! yet seem'd he throned securely:—long
His fate hung o'er him ere it fell, and long
The earthquake slumber'd under ere it came.
Long years he reign'd: his gilded sceptre sway'd
Pale crowds of flattering menials, men who swore
Allegiance, and innumerable throngs
Of warriors, and a Godless multitude
Whose god was Pleasure, and the lawless fires
Of dastard men whom sin alone inspired
With boldness, and a few heroic souls
Who pray'd and wept o'er that they saw and heard
In solitude, and many aching hearts.
Long years he reign'd: the assassin's hand in vain;
Was raised against him often times, but still
God's mightier hand was o'er him: and the floods
Of evil chafed and toss'd themselves in vain
The hour of their unloosing was not come;
And God reserved him for no common fall.
Long years he reign'd: and with the liberal hand
21
With distant courts, if only he might stay
His throne with strength, and crown his children's brows.
Nor lack'd he arms, or armies, or brave fleets,
Nor bulwarks lack'd, nor any thing but God.
But in the prime of glory, when his heart
Spake peace unto itself and tranquil age,
What time his kingly throne the kingliest shew'd,
Then came the voice from heaven, “There is no peace;”
And straightway a convulsive trembling shook
The ground whereon his throne was planted—none
Might save him then—earth shudder'd, and the heavens
Frown'd: fearfulness besieged and storm'd
His spirit, deem'd impregnable till now.
A few wild, unavailing struggles—fool!
As well go struggle to erect thy throne
Upon the Alpine avalanche—and all
Pass'd like a fugitive dream. They who had sworn
To live and die beside him, where were they?
Where were his courtly friends, his dastard troops,
His statesmen, and his warriors, and his peers?
Where were his loving subjects, where was France?
22
And not of God? was it a viewless Hand
Withheld them? was it that they crouch'd with fear?
None raised a hand; none moved a foot; none spake;—
The earthquake palsied every arm and blanch'd
All faces pale, and drain'd all hearts of blood.
And like a fugitive dream it pass'd: his throne
Lay shatter'd in the dust, his palaces
Were ransack'd by a foul, infuriate crowd;
His armies struck a strange and traitorous league
With robbers and with murderers, and call'd
Them brethren; and his darling capital
Became a den of lawlessness and guilt
And devils, under semblance of control;
And trembled with dark memories of the past,
Dark bodings of the future, wild despair,
And wild, insensate hopes of golden bliss.
Oh, fallen monarch! on the verge of years,
Strange retrospect must often now be thine
Of thy long fateful Past:—a witness thou
And sufferer in that former storm of wrath,
Whereof the wrecks the angry waves cast up
Still crumble on the shores of Time; then days
Of seeming smoothness, until thou thyself
Snatch'd from the pilot's hands the unruly helm,
And yielding to the passionate gusts awhile,
Drave right before the tempest, till the winds
Were somewhat lull'd; and all men praised thy skill.
And long thy vessel rode through billowy seas,
And many blasts of winter: not a fear was there
Of shipwreck, while thy hand might hold
The rudder. Proudly o'er the seas thy bark
Rode forth; but on a sudden, in full noon
Of glory, every sailyard bent with wind,
Struck on a sunken rock: then might you hear
The crash of bulwarks amid cries for help
And howlings of the pitiless storm. The masts
Fell ruinous and the waves rush'd in amain,
And thou thyself, disrobed of glory, borne
By some chance solitary plank, wast cast
Upon our rugged shores. Strange retrospect,
Oh fallen, shipwreck'd monarch, must be thine:—
Behind thee lies thy track of wild adventure,
Bright with fleet gleams and overcast with storms:
And still upon the far horizon's skirts
Thy vessel struggles with the sullen waves,
In desperate hope: and ever and anon
One and another takes the broken helm,—
In vain: for still they cry not unto God,
Whose are the heavens, and earth, and winds, and seas.
Strange retrospect must often now be thine
Of thy long fateful Past:—a witness thou
And sufferer in that former storm of wrath,
23
Still crumble on the shores of Time; then days
Of seeming smoothness, until thou thyself
Snatch'd from the pilot's hands the unruly helm,
And yielding to the passionate gusts awhile,
Drave right before the tempest, till the winds
Were somewhat lull'd; and all men praised thy skill.
And long thy vessel rode through billowy seas,
And many blasts of winter: not a fear was there
Of shipwreck, while thy hand might hold
The rudder. Proudly o'er the seas thy bark
Rode forth; but on a sudden, in full noon
Of glory, every sailyard bent with wind,
Struck on a sunken rock: then might you hear
The crash of bulwarks amid cries for help
And howlings of the pitiless storm. The masts
Fell ruinous and the waves rush'd in amain,
And thou thyself, disrobed of glory, borne
By some chance solitary plank, wast cast
Upon our rugged shores. Strange retrospect,
Oh fallen, shipwreck'd monarch, must be thine:—
Behind thee lies thy track of wild adventure,
24
And still upon the far horizon's skirts
Thy vessel struggles with the sullen waves,
In desperate hope: and ever and anon
One and another takes the broken helm,—
In vain: for still they cry not unto God,
Whose are the heavens, and earth, and winds, and seas.
Meanwhile the twilight shades of life, O king!
Are closing fast around thee, and full soon
That life will fleet before thy dying eyes
As the vain pageant of a moment;—earth
Dissolve as into viewless air, and time
Grow pale before a close eternity.
Oh, if a voice from heaven could reach thee, king,
Would it not cry aloud—“Awake! awake!
From the wild fever of thy life-long dream,
With its vain nightmare tossings and brief lulls
Of slumber, for an everlasting morn
Of stern reality draws on apace,
And death's alarum soon, O king, will strike?
Oh, take thine eyes from off that batter'd crown,
Clutch not that broken sceptre:—thou art weary,
Weary of all, but mostly of thyself;
'Tis not too late to tear away the garb
Of faithless superstition: fling thyself
At foot of Jesus' cross, and, like a child,
Cast upon Him thy sick, sin-laden soul,
Till on the blood-stain'd Mount of Calvary
His smile speak reconcilement to thine heart,
And overflood with holy tears thine eyes,
Thy soul with peace and pardon. None may speak
That blessedness, and as the ebbing sands
Of life run smoothly, peacefully away,
Thy high enduring future would stand forth
Against the false delusions of thy past
In brighter, clearer vividness of truth,—
A victor's palm, a golden harp of praise,
A crown of pure, imperishable glory,
A brotherhood of angels, life, light, love,
The cloudless and eternal smile of God.”
Are closing fast around thee, and full soon
That life will fleet before thy dying eyes
As the vain pageant of a moment;—earth
Dissolve as into viewless air, and time
Grow pale before a close eternity.
Oh, if a voice from heaven could reach thee, king,
Would it not cry aloud—“Awake! awake!
From the wild fever of thy life-long dream,
With its vain nightmare tossings and brief lulls
Of slumber, for an everlasting morn
Of stern reality draws on apace,
And death's alarum soon, O king, will strike?
Oh, take thine eyes from off that batter'd crown,
25
Weary of all, but mostly of thyself;
'Tis not too late to tear away the garb
Of faithless superstition: fling thyself
At foot of Jesus' cross, and, like a child,
Cast upon Him thy sick, sin-laden soul,
Till on the blood-stain'd Mount of Calvary
His smile speak reconcilement to thine heart,
And overflood with holy tears thine eyes,
Thy soul with peace and pardon. None may speak
That blessedness, and as the ebbing sands
Of life run smoothly, peacefully away,
Thy high enduring future would stand forth
Against the false delusions of thy past
In brighter, clearer vividness of truth,—
A victor's palm, a golden harp of praise,
A crown of pure, imperishable glory,
A brotherhood of angels, life, light, love,
The cloudless and eternal smile of God.”
My thoughts were thus at random wandering far,
When, lo! another and severer shock
Of earthquake smote the lawless, foodless, Godless land
Of France with desolation. To and fro
She reel'd in anguish and despair: her streets
Were lit up with the fires of hell, and groan'd
With dying groans and stream'd with streams of blood.
Vaunting of late unto the world she spake,
And bade the nations look on her, and see
How holy was the cause of freedom, what
Serene and awful majesty there lies
In a great people's will: how in the hour
Of conquest they were conquerors of themselves;
And how their tearless, bloodless triumph fill'd
In the world's records one unstainèd page.
Their vauntings echo'd through all lands, and woke
Unholy thoughts and cravings in the minds
Of wicked men: and with an idiot's mirth
They scorn'd the freedom of their fathers, scorn'd
The faith their fathers loved, and thought that they,
Like that same holy, happy, heavenly France,
Might trample on the laws of God and man
And fling their fetters in the face of heaven,
And yet be patriots, citizens, and men.
26
Of earthquake smote the lawless, foodless, Godless land
Of France with desolation. To and fro
She reel'd in anguish and despair: her streets
Were lit up with the fires of hell, and groan'd
With dying groans and stream'd with streams of blood.
Vaunting of late unto the world she spake,
And bade the nations look on her, and see
How holy was the cause of freedom, what
Serene and awful majesty there lies
In a great people's will: how in the hour
Of conquest they were conquerors of themselves;
And how their tearless, bloodless triumph fill'd
In the world's records one unstainèd page.
Their vauntings echo'd through all lands, and woke
Unholy thoughts and cravings in the minds
Of wicked men: and with an idiot's mirth
They scorn'd the freedom of their fathers, scorn'd
The faith their fathers loved, and thought that they,
Like that same holy, happy, heavenly France,
Might trample on the laws of God and man
27
And yet be patriots, citizens, and men.
But while these thoughts were brooding in their hearts
Nor yet had found free utterance, that land
Of light and liberty—the foremost far
In the great march of reason—glorious France,
Even in the midst of her rejoicings, grew
Upon a sudden deadly pale, her heart
Was choked with blood, and ceased awhile to beat.
Awhile—then grappling with the energy
Of men in a death-struggle, at her cry
Of direst need, the iron ranks of war
Did grapple with these sons of liberty,
That monstrous brood of madness and foul crime,
And reckless of their choicest blood, did wrest
Their murderous arms from fathers, brothers, sons,
And trample out the hideous torch of hell.
Nor yet had found free utterance, that land
Of light and liberty—the foremost far
In the great march of reason—glorious France,
Even in the midst of her rejoicings, grew
Upon a sudden deadly pale, her heart
Was choked with blood, and ceased awhile to beat.
Awhile—then grappling with the energy
Of men in a death-struggle, at her cry
Of direst need, the iron ranks of war
Did grapple with these sons of liberty,
That monstrous brood of madness and foul crime,
And reckless of their choicest blood, did wrest
Their murderous arms from fathers, brothers, sons,
And trample out the hideous torch of hell.
Oh Freedom! heaven-born Freedom! wert thou not,
Like Light thy sister, never to be stain'd
By aught of sin, though in a sinful world,
Surely they had polluted thy fair name
By breathing it through their polluted lips
And screening, more like lying fiends than men,
Such hellish deeds behind thy heavenly shield!
But thou, as free as is the fetterless wind,
Thy chariot, visitest all lands, all seas,
Thou lightest on the lonely mountain-top
And on the clear blue glaciers and white snows,
And minglest with the flowing clouds; the stars
Smile on thee; and the ocean billows bend
Beneath thy printless footstep and the flow
Of thy aërial robes: the forests wave,
The rivers glide before thee and the rills.
Hail, Freedom! dear ambassadress of heaven!
Thou hauntest not the golden palaces
Of tyrants, nor the despot's dreamy couch,
Nor dwellest in the Bacchanalian vaults
Of fouler lawlessness—but on the throne
Of holy monarchs and anointed kings,
And in the reverend senate and the halls
Of high ancestral rank, and in the streets
Of frank and honourable merchandise,
And where the peasant's rose-twined cottage smiles
Its welcome home; and wheresoever beats
With Christian liberty a faithful heart.
Like Light thy sister, never to be stain'd
By aught of sin, though in a sinful world,
28
By breathing it through their polluted lips
And screening, more like lying fiends than men,
Such hellish deeds behind thy heavenly shield!
But thou, as free as is the fetterless wind,
Thy chariot, visitest all lands, all seas,
Thou lightest on the lonely mountain-top
And on the clear blue glaciers and white snows,
And minglest with the flowing clouds; the stars
Smile on thee; and the ocean billows bend
Beneath thy printless footstep and the flow
Of thy aërial robes: the forests wave,
The rivers glide before thee and the rills.
Hail, Freedom! dear ambassadress of heaven!
Thou hauntest not the golden palaces
Of tyrants, nor the despot's dreamy couch,
Nor dwellest in the Bacchanalian vaults
Of fouler lawlessness—but on the throne
Of holy monarchs and anointed kings,
And in the reverend senate and the halls
Of high ancestral rank, and in the streets
Of frank and honourable merchandise,
29
Its welcome home; and wheresoever beats
With Christian liberty a faithful heart.
Once more a lull upon the nations—strange
As was the former tempest, and my thoughts,
Weary with their long watching, rock'd themselves
To rest with murmur of the ebbing waves.
As was the former tempest, and my thoughts,
Weary with their long watching, rock'd themselves
To rest with murmur of the ebbing waves.
1848.
30
ON THE SLOW MOVEMENT OF THE SAME.
I
Oh hush! my soul, be silent,For the chords sweep on again;
Though it take thy heart from out thee,
Still listen to the strain.
II
It flows along, like waters,To a tuneful “dying fall,”
And tells of griefs and tears, and love
That smiles amid them all.
37
III
In deep waves of affectionFlows on the mournful river,
Persuasively, persuasively,
For ever and for ever.
IV
Methinks a sad beloved oneIs by her lover kneeling,
And blent with their own echoes still
Her tender strains are stealing.
V
With her soft blue eye she askethThe secret of his woe,
For a burning grief hath seal'd his heart
And his tears will not flow.
VI
She asketh with the musicThat tells of things that were;
She asks to grieve, for grief with him
Were a solace unto her.
38
VII
Like clouds a bright star circling,Like soft winds round a rose,
Like waters round a lily's brim,
That wondrous music flows.
VIII
Ah, woe for that sweet singer!Woe for that loving heart!
Her pulse beats quick, her words fall fast—
But he turns unmoved to part.
IX
One lingering note recalls him,Thus, thus, he cannot sever,—
And on and on persuasively
The music flows for ever.
X
Persuasively, persuasively,She ever seems to plead,
That he would pour his grief to her
The saddest, grief could need.
39
XI
Her soft blue eye is fillingWith tears for his and him,
And her low sad strain swept on again,
Until his own were dim.
XII
Enough, enough—he weepeth,His heart no more is cold,
And tears can tell a passionate world
That in language is untold.
XIII
Refreshingly as breezesBlow o'er the sultry sands,
Refreshingly as gushing showers
Rain life on thirsty lands;
XIV
Delicious as when sunshineStreams o'er a wintry sky,
Delicious as the soft air's breath
When the thunder hath passed by;
40
XV
In trustful calm affection,Like some smooth southern river,
Persuasively, resistlessly,
The music flows for ever.
XVI
But it takes the heart from out me,That deep confiding strain,
And I must beguile a little while
Till it come back again.
1844.
63
TO A FOREIGNER HEARING “HERZ MEIN HERZ” SUNG TO THE HARP.
Wakes it a chord of thy native land,
That wild and plaintive strain?
Why follow thine eyes with tears the hand
As it touches the harp again?
That wild and plaintive strain?
Why follow thine eyes with tears the hand
As it touches the harp again?
It seems like a gush of the mountain breeze,
Or sweeter, from Swerga bowers,
To wanderers wandering o'er wilderness seas
In summer's weariest hours.
Or sweeter, from Swerga bowers,
To wanderers wandering o'er wilderness seas
In summer's weariest hours.
Speaks it to thee of mountains blue,
And the free-born torrent's foam?
Or of thoughts more deep than these and true,
And feelings closer home?
And the free-born torrent's foam?
Or of thoughts more deep than these and true,
And feelings closer home?
64
Play on, play on, let the music flow
Mine heart, mine heart, o'er thee;
Oh cease not, for I cannot go,
Those tones keep whispering me.
Mine heart, mine heart, o'er thee;
Oh cease not, for I cannot go,
Those tones keep whispering me.
They whisper of deep-blue starry skies,
My native hills above;
And the stars methinks are a thousand eyes,
And all are bright with love.
My native hills above;
And the stars methinks are a thousand eyes,
And all are bright with love.
They speak of torrents far away,
Of affection's gushing springs;
But how can language speak, I pray,
The heart's unutter'd things?
Of affection's gushing springs;
But how can language speak, I pray,
The heart's unutter'd things?
Oh ere those lovely things have pass'd,
Lady, play on, play on;
Sweet was the dream, too sweet to last.
Dear Lady—it is gone.
Lady, play on, play on;
Sweet was the dream, too sweet to last.
Dear Lady—it is gone.
1845.
65
PLATO.
AFTER READING MACAULAY'S COMPARISON OF PLATO AND BACON.
I
A pilgrim wanderer, Wisdom's favourite child,Struggling to gain a distant fair countree,
By some lost track across a trackless wild:
A wave-toss'd mariner, whose home must be
In some far port, or on the homeless sea;
But yet no chart, no compass for thy guide,
The skies and waters strange alike to thee;
And thine through wind and tempest forth to ride,
By light of dubious stars athwart the billowy tide.
66
II
Such wert thou, Plato! such the task sublimeThat urged thee on, still present to thy soul.
Thy heart was pining for thy native clime,
Though surging oceans, wrapp'd in storms, might roll
'Twixt it and thee: and thou wilt reach the goal,
Or perish in the waters; for heaven's light
On thee hath dimly dawn'd, and earth's control
Bars not thy pathway to a land where night
Is known not, chased away by glories heavenly bright.
III
Perchance it was a momentary gleam,Heaven's smiles on earth are seldom aught beside,
Which lit up thy great soul with that far dream
Prophetic; 'twas enough, thou hadst espied
A beacon that to every doubt replied:
And oft a voice, sweet, silvery clear, and low,
Fell on thy spirit's trancèd ear, and cried,
Home, brother, home! and homeward thou wouldst go,
Though bearing with thee on the exile's heart of woe.
67
IV
Yet who can tell the struggles that were thine,Ere, brother, thou couldst pierce the mists of earth,
The gather'd mass of ages, and divine,
'Mid wrecks and ruin, griefs and idiot mirth,
The spirit's immortality and birth?
Seem'd it a rough and mountain wilderness,
A path of lifeless rock and barren dearth?
Yet wouldst thou battle on, and not the less
Though weary and wayworn still upward, onward press.
V
Even as one whose heart is fix'd to scale,Ere break of day, some wild aërial height
Though darkness block his pathway, thence to hail
The sun's first lordly glance with shafts of light
Strike through the clouds and fugitive mists of night.
So, under guidance of some heavenly star,
Vouchsafed in mercy to thy earnest sight,
Rapt heavenward by no prophet's fiery car,
Fearlessly didst thou win that heavenly height afar.
68
VI
Yes, thou hast scaled the mountain-tops, great sage,'Mid everlasting things aloft, alone;
But never on thine earthly pilgrimage
The sun arose, nor over time's unknown
Was God's unclouded truth in glory thrown;
Never until thy mortal shackles fell
Like wither'd withs from off thee. Many a one
May scoff, and deem thy labour spared as well
In climbing long lone hours that lofty pinnacle.
VII
They little know the rapturous search for truth;Faint streaks of light are in the eastern sky,
Whereof the far reflexion were in sooth
Full recompense to thine adventurous eye.
The clouds and mists apace are drifting by;
Space, time, worlds, are beneath thee. What if gloom
Still mantle earth with twilight's canopy?
The morn shall break, and with its roseate bloom
Cast beauty over death and glory on the tomb.
69
VIII
But some there are whose mean and earth-bound soul,Impatient of the pure ethereal flame
Of heavenly wisdom, would with taunts control
Her and her children, bringing still the same
False tedious charge. Go, let them brand his name,
And scorn the man, the enthusiast, if they will,
Who treads to heaven an upland path of fame.
His eye intent on that eternal hill,
His food, philosophy; philosophy, his rill.
IX
“And is he richer,” lo! they cry, “forsooth?Where are his fruits? his profits? where his gain?
And hath he found in his long search for truth
Wherewith to chase our woes and ease our pain,
And smoothing every roughness from the plain,
The thorny plain of life, lit on a path
Where we in infantine repose again
May live, and dream, and slumber? If he hath,
Come, follow him; if not, eschew his lying faith.”
70
X
But the high search for moral rectitude,The laws immutable of men and things,
To trace the true, the beautiful, the good,
And how from hidden and eternal springs
Flow forth the spirit's high imaginings:
What of the pure and heavenly is inwrought
With nature's outward sphere, and round it clings
In magic unison of sense and thought:
Oh, that they reck'd not of, and counted it for nought.
XI
“Fruit, solid fruit,” they cry; “enrich mankindWith happy life, and ease, and plenteous store.”
Blind seers, in their clearsightedness so blind!
Seers! yes, perchance if ever on this shore
Of time we toss'd the pebbles o'er and o'er;
But if 'tis ours athwart a boundless sea
To steer for ever and for evermore,
Sure 'twere as wise, immortal sage, with thee
To freight the undying soul for heaven's eternity.
71
XII
And modest Truth, thus hearing them deride,Ever distrustful of herself, the while
Lean'd her fair head in thoughtfulness aside,
And probed her bosom's depths to see if guile
Might linger unawares in secret wile;
But finding none to heaven she raised her brow,
And reading there a bright approving smile,
In fearless confidence gazed upwards now,
Such as to her accuser said, “so couldst not thou.”
XIII
Let them dream on as like them—let no soundOr warning whisper jar that luscious spell
Of slumber; let them lie as if death-bound,
Or muttering, at the chime of every bell,
“Our body breathes and waxes—it is well.”
Thy soul, great prophet, was with thought a-fire,
And knit for life, for action. Who can tell
That native strength of thine that would not tire,
Those burning hopes of glory, that to heaven aspire?
72
XIV
As when the rosy-finger'd morn is flushingThe ocean-mists that her bright couch enclose,
When every dewdrop, virgin-like, is blushing
With kisses from the sun on every rose,
The lark, far spurning earth and its repose,
Leaps buoyant on its flight, and, zephyr-driven,
Carols at will to every cloud that flows
On that aërial sea; her guerdon given,
Her sole, her rich reward to drink the airs of heaven.
XV
So thou exultingly didst soar aloft,Perchance thy wing was venturously free,
Thy fancy wild and beautiful, and oft
Thy glowing hopes exuberant in glee;
Yet wisdom owns her favourite child in thee,
Who, battling through the mists of sense and time,
Didst borrow strength of immortality,
And won by warblings from a heavenly clime
Reach that eternal land, of light and love the clime.
73
XVI
Hail, happy spirit! when at last the skyBroke glorious on thy gaze, all must have worn
The smile of morning-land unto thine eye,
For thou the weariness of night hadst borne;
And in the glory of that cloudless morn,
Heaven must have bloom'd with all its golden beams,
Unearthly beautiful. Let others scorn;
Be mine the fruitlessness, if such it seems,
Of thy high tasks—be thine the brightest of thy dreams.
1843.
83
LAMENTATIONS, ch. i. v. 1–7.
How lies the city solitary, lone,
Once with the throngs of countless numbers teeming!
How sits she as a widow, woe-begone,
She of great nations once the greatest seeming,
The diadem upon her queenly brow,—
Ah woe! a tributary captive now!
She weepeth sore at night;
Her tears are on her cheeks;
For many lovers loved her fame's delight—
Alas! of all there is not one who speaks
To her of comfort: all her many friends
For their past love with hatred make amends.
Far off, far off, a captive in distress,
Trailing her chain for very weariness,
Judah into captivity hath gone!
Among the heathen dwelling, pale and wan,
She findeth there no rest,
Unpitied, unbefriended, and unblest.
Once with the throngs of countless numbers teeming!
How sits she as a widow, woe-begone,
She of great nations once the greatest seeming,
The diadem upon her queenly brow,—
Ah woe! a tributary captive now!
She weepeth sore at night;
Her tears are on her cheeks;
For many lovers loved her fame's delight—
Alas! of all there is not one who speaks
To her of comfort: all her many friends
For their past love with hatred make amends.
Far off, far off, a captive in distress,
Trailing her chain for very weariness,
Judah into captivity hath gone!
Among the heathen dwelling, pale and wan,
84
Unpitied, unbefriended, and unblest.
Ah, woe for Salem! in the straits of ruin
Her fierce pursuers fiercest then pursuing.
Her fierce pursuers fiercest then pursuing.
The ways of Zion mourn,
For none attend her solemn festivals;
Her gates in desolation lie forlorn;
Her priests heave sighs in answer when she calls;
Her virgins grieve, and grieve without control;
And she lies low in bitterness of soul.
In proud pre-eminence she sees
Her scoffing, taunting enemies;
For her transgressions great and grievous were,
And therefore hath the Lord afflicted her.—
And now, the crowning woe of all her woes,
Her tender little ones,
Her maidens and her sons,
Are driven into captivity before her foes.
For none attend her solemn festivals;
Her gates in desolation lie forlorn;
Her priests heave sighs in answer when she calls;
Her virgins grieve, and grieve without control;
And she lies low in bitterness of soul.
In proud pre-eminence she sees
Her scoffing, taunting enemies;
For her transgressions great and grievous were,
And therefore hath the Lord afflicted her.—
And now, the crowning woe of all her woes,
Her tender little ones,
Her maidens and her sons,
Are driven into captivity before her foes.
Oh, weep for Sion's daugther! broken-hearted,
Her beauty and her bloom hath all departed.
Her princes have become like stricken deer,
Who seek for pastures in the wilderness—
And as the fell pursuer draweth near,
Still start and flee exhausted, spiritless.
Jerusalem, she weepeth sore,
For now her sorrow and her anguish brings
Back to her mind those bright and pleasant things
That once were hers; but can be hers no more—
Her foes have triumph'd, she hath fallen low;
Of all her friends that were,
Not one hath holpen her,
A widow weeping tears of irrepressible woe.
Her beauty and her bloom hath all departed.
85
Who seek for pastures in the wilderness—
And as the fell pursuer draweth near,
Still start and flee exhausted, spiritless.
Jerusalem, she weepeth sore,
For now her sorrow and her anguish brings
Back to her mind those bright and pleasant things
That once were hers; but can be hers no more—
Her foes have triumph'd, she hath fallen low;
Of all her friends that were,
Not one hath holpen her,
A widow weeping tears of irrepressible woe.
1848.
117
ALONE UPON THE MOUNTAINS.
Alone upon the mountains! and at night—
A night of fitful clouds and shadowy gleams.
The tremulous mists that creep from height to height,
Their skirts are round my footsteps: and the streams,
Whose moan so oft hath haunted me in dreams,
At length I roam their rugged tracks along:
The caves that I have pictured, and the beams
Of moonlight flickering the dark peaks among,
No more are as a lovely but far distant song.
A night of fitful clouds and shadowy gleams.
The tremulous mists that creep from height to height,
Their skirts are round my footsteps: and the streams,
Whose moan so oft hath haunted me in dreams,
At length I roam their rugged tracks along:
The caves that I have pictured, and the beams
Of moonlight flickering the dark peaks among,
No more are as a lovely but far distant song.
Alone upon the mountains! with the voice
Of torrent floods around me, and the sound
Of rushing winds, as playmates of my choice.
Ye vales, with roses and with myrtle crown'd,
Ye quiet springs, Enchantment's trancing ground,
I once was yours, but can be yours no more.
Alone, by rock and ocean girdled round:
Sweep, ye wild wintry blasts, the waters o'er,
And roll, thou billowy deep, all darkly as of yore.
Of torrent floods around me, and the sound
Of rushing winds, as playmates of my choice.
Ye vales, with roses and with myrtle crown'd,
Ye quiet springs, Enchantment's trancing ground,
128
Alone, by rock and ocean girdled round:
Sweep, ye wild wintry blasts, the waters o'er,
And roll, thou billowy deep, all darkly as of yore.
Far, far upon the mountain-peaks to be,
Lone gazing, as in visionary trance,
Down on the white foam of the midnight sea,
Whose billows gleam with meteor light, and dance
Like revellers of night beneath the glance
Of the pale moonbeams, or the lightning's glare:
A fluttering sail athwart the waves' expanse
Sweeps yonder, like a spirit of despair
Driven o'er the gulph of death, it knows not, heeds not where.
Lone gazing, as in visionary trance,
Down on the white foam of the midnight sea,
Whose billows gleam with meteor light, and dance
Like revellers of night beneath the glance
Of the pale moonbeams, or the lightning's glare:
A fluttering sail athwart the waves' expanse
Sweeps yonder, like a spirit of despair
Driven o'er the gulph of death, it knows not, heeds not where.
'Tis past—and I am girt with clouds once more,
Clouds that would mock the piercing eaglet's eye,
Impenetrable darkness, and the roar
Of all the battling armies of the sky
Above me and around, and far and nigh.
Felt though unseen: this is the place for me;
Here can the spirit's wing unfetter'd fly,
And track with flight as rapid and as free
The lightning in its pathway o'er the glorious sea.
Clouds that would mock the piercing eaglet's eye,
Impenetrable darkness, and the roar
Of all the battling armies of the sky
Above me and around, and far and nigh.
129
Here can the spirit's wing unfetter'd fly,
And track with flight as rapid and as free
The lightning in its pathway o'er the glorious sea.
1843.
130
SONNET.
There's music on the winds—and far aloftIt sinks and rises as they rise and sink.
And evermore, like waters from the brink
Of over-joyful springs, in tones most soft
And most melodious, came quick bursts of song,
Like harpers harping on their harps: and oft
They fill'd my soul with worship; till among
The caverns of the clouds they seem'd to lose
The magic of their music—none might choose
But hear—the fount was rapture, and to drink,
A joy past utterance: and the morning dews
Chased mist-like the blue ocean waves along,
Till clouds, winds, waters, music-built did seem,
The shadows of an everlasting dream.
131
THE LAST HOUR OF 1846.
I
Moans the night wind so wildly? sad and chillCome distant rain drops falling? wherefore so?
Hath not the old year pass'd like light, and still
Blooms not the future in unclouded glow?—
And scatter'd on its blue waves see ye not,
Sisters, full many a love-enamell'd spot?
II
Then wherefore moans the wind, and wherefore comesSad thro' the night the weeping of the rain?
Oh, sisters, deem not that earth's many homes
Have all like yours been without cloud or stain:—
There are who weep upon their couch the light
Of fond hopes, last year glowing, dead to-night.
132
III
There are who mourn for dear ones reft and rivenFrom out the inmost shrine of loving hearts;
Now shining far perchance like stars of heaven,
But yet the tie, though parted, ever parts:
There are who sorrows weep more drear than this:
Oh hush, that depth unknown, unsounded is.
IV
Then blame ye not the wind that sounds so wild,Blame not the passing hour's quick mournful tears:
But listen to its lesson like a child
And catch its troubled music—so our years
Will all ere long like winds have fleeted by
And tears alone make answer to their sigh.
December 31, 1846.
133
CERULINE.
Φευ, φευ, τι ποτ' αυ κιναθισμα κλυω
πελας οιωνων; αιθηρ δ' ελαφραις
πτερυγων ριπαις υποσυριζει.
—Æsch. Prom.
πελας οιωνων; αιθηρ δ' ελαφραις
πτερυγων ριπαις υποσυριζει.
—Æsch. Prom.
I. PART I.
The mirth was loud in the banquet hall,
For a hundred knights were feasting there,
And countless lamps upon the wall
Flash'd o'er the wine and the goblets' glare;
And the cold gales of heaven were lost in perfume,
And the darkness no more was fear and gloom:—
There merrily glances
In swift-footed dances
The chorus of maidens by;
Their harps are all strung,
Sweet is every tongue,
And glowing is every eye.
The dance never fail'd, the strains never ceased—
Right well have those warriors earn'd their feast!
And the maidens were wreathing the laurel boughs
In garlands bright round the victors' brows;—
All shone with joyousness, hope, and bliss....
Is there room for grief in a scene like this?
For a hundred knights were feasting there,
And countless lamps upon the wall
Flash'd o'er the wine and the goblets' glare;
And the cold gales of heaven were lost in perfume,
And the darkness no more was fear and gloom:—
There merrily glances
In swift-footed dances
The chorus of maidens by;
Their harps are all strung,
Sweet is every tongue,
And glowing is every eye.
The dance never fail'd, the strains never ceased—
Right well have those warriors earn'd their feast!
134
In garlands bright round the victors' brows;—
All shone with joyousness, hope, and bliss....
Is there room for grief in a scene like this?
Where goeth that lady? what to see?
Sad Ceruline, where goeth she?
And hath she left the warriors' hall,
And the choir of maidens one and all?
She hath left the banquet's light
To wander alone through the lonely night.
What charm hath music or dance on her
Whose soul is knit to the things that were?
Peerless in beauty, sylph-like in form,
Love beat in her heart, and true, and warm,
But it was love for unearthly things,
For the rush of spirit wings,
For the light that gleam'd through eyes
Wont to pierce beyond the skies,
For the tales that mortal ear
Dreams not of, though floating near.
The moon is up, the forests thrill
With the hush'd silence of the rill;
The clear cold shadows, one by one,
And the moonlight clearer, colder still,
The spells of midnight felt by none
Save forest travellers wending on,—
All seem to warn that maiden thence
With her spotless innocence.
Yet her foot is firm, her eye is bright,
She trembles not in the lonely night,
But onward wendeth fearlessly
For the love of the things of a far countree.
Sad Ceruline, where goeth she?
And hath she left the warriors' hall,
And the choir of maidens one and all?
She hath left the banquet's light
To wander alone through the lonely night.
What charm hath music or dance on her
Whose soul is knit to the things that were?
Peerless in beauty, sylph-like in form,
Love beat in her heart, and true, and warm,
But it was love for unearthly things,
For the rush of spirit wings,
For the light that gleam'd through eyes
Wont to pierce beyond the skies,
For the tales that mortal ear
Dreams not of, though floating near.
135
With the hush'd silence of the rill;
The clear cold shadows, one by one,
And the moonlight clearer, colder still,
The spells of midnight felt by none
Save forest travellers wending on,—
All seem to warn that maiden thence
With her spotless innocence.
Yet her foot is firm, her eye is bright,
She trembles not in the lonely night,
But onward wendeth fearlessly
For the love of the things of a far countree.
The moon is up, but clouds are stealing
O'er the heaven's blue vaulted ceiling;
Though borne on the reckless gales of night
They cross not Cynthia's path of light,
But when they enter the magic sphere,
Where the beams of her light are crystal-clear,
She smiles on them with angel smile,
Their gloomy wildness to beguile,
And touches them with light, and they
Tremble with radiance, and float away.
Athwart the moon-shadows on the grass
Fearless Ceruline doth pass:
Swift through the light, swift through the shade,
Her feet have travell'd many a glade:
See! she hath cast the veil aside
That droop'd above her eye serene,
And bared her snow-white breast of pride
To that marble clear moon-sheen.—
The banquet hall is far behind,
And it comes like a friend, that forest wind.—
Is there nought else thou seekest there
Up in heaven's pure untroubled air?
Why roams thine eye from star to star?
Is thy heart absent yet more far?
Whence comes that holy light serene
Writ on thy brow, fair Ceruline?
....In silence swiftly wendeth she
For the love of the things of a far countree.
O'er the heaven's blue vaulted ceiling;
Though borne on the reckless gales of night
They cross not Cynthia's path of light,
But when they enter the magic sphere,
Where the beams of her light are crystal-clear,
She smiles on them with angel smile,
Their gloomy wildness to beguile,
And touches them with light, and they
Tremble with radiance, and float away.
136
Fearless Ceruline doth pass:
Swift through the light, swift through the shade,
Her feet have travell'd many a glade:
See! she hath cast the veil aside
That droop'd above her eye serene,
And bared her snow-white breast of pride
To that marble clear moon-sheen.—
The banquet hall is far behind,
And it comes like a friend, that forest wind.—
Is there nought else thou seekest there
Up in heaven's pure untroubled air?
Why roams thine eye from star to star?
Is thy heart absent yet more far?
Whence comes that holy light serene
Writ on thy brow, fair Ceruline?
....In silence swiftly wendeth she
For the love of the things of a far countree.
Now she hath pass'd the tangled wood;
Light of foot is she!
And silent stands where once there stood
The one she came to see.
There the clear cold waters flow
Deep from their unseen spring below,
And gushing with their saddest tone
Flow circling round a mossy stone;
In them no sparkling laughter shines,
But as they spring from the rocky mines
One moan they give, one sigh anon,
And then in silence hurry on:—
Like captives from a dungeon mist
Cast forth to wander where they list,
Who cannot bear the blaze of day,
But to some hidden haunt steal swiftly away.
Light of foot is she!
And silent stands where once there stood
The one she came to see.
137
Deep from their unseen spring below,
And gushing with their saddest tone
Flow circling round a mossy stone;
In them no sparkling laughter shines,
But as they spring from the rocky mines
One moan they give, one sigh anon,
And then in silence hurry on:—
Like captives from a dungeon mist
Cast forth to wander where they list,
Who cannot bear the blaze of day,
But to some hidden haunt steal swiftly away.
Fair was the spot, and passing fair
She who came a pilgrim there:—
She look'd up with her sad dark eye
To the silvery moon that rode on high,
But soon she turn'd aside unheeded,
For she found not there the friend she needed;—
She look'd up where bright Jupiter,
Smiling in glory, smiled on her,
But she was too sad to hold converse proud
With his lordly eye, without mist or cloud;—
Again look'd up that lady young,
Where the pearl-like lamp of Venus hung,
And dewy tears of radiance gave
Unto the rippling deep-blue wave:
On the lady's eye it softly shone,
But further still, and further on
To the inmost soul, I ween,
Of the sad lovely Ceruline.
For, as it had been a friend most dear,
She shed with it a kindred tear,
And gazing up with wishful eye,
Bless'd her pale sister in the sky:
And she took her lute, beside her slung,
And thus that fair sad lady sung—
She who came a pilgrim there:—
She look'd up with her sad dark eye
To the silvery moon that rode on high,
But soon she turn'd aside unheeded,
For she found not there the friend she needed;—
She look'd up where bright Jupiter,
Smiling in glory, smiled on her,
But she was too sad to hold converse proud
With his lordly eye, without mist or cloud;—
138
Where the pearl-like lamp of Venus hung,
And dewy tears of radiance gave
Unto the rippling deep-blue wave:
On the lady's eye it softly shone,
But further still, and further on
To the inmost soul, I ween,
Of the sad lovely Ceruline.
For, as it had been a friend most dear,
She shed with it a kindred tear,
And gazing up with wishful eye,
Bless'd her pale sister in the sky:
And she took her lute, beside her slung,
And thus that fair sad lady sung—
“If in yon cerulean sphere
Thou hast a heart and a soul for me,
Spirit of my Hoel, hear,
Ceruline is whispering thee.
The banquet's light may glitter bright,
It hath for me no charms,
The voiceless lonesomeness of night
For me hath no alarms.
Gaze on me from the dark-blue skies
With thy dark-blue spirit eyes;
And the banquet's light may sparkle bright
And spread its witching charms,
And the voiceless lonesomeness of night
Grow pale with cold alarms—
Only wave thy wings of light,
And clasp me to thine arms.”
Thou hast a heart and a soul for me,
Spirit of my Hoel, hear,
Ceruline is whispering thee.
The banquet's light may glitter bright,
It hath for me no charms,
The voiceless lonesomeness of night
For me hath no alarms.
139
With thy dark-blue spirit eyes;
And the banquet's light may sparkle bright
And spread its witching charms,
And the voiceless lonesomeness of night
Grow pale with cold alarms—
Only wave thy wings of light,
And clasp me to thine arms.”
And the echo nymphs, dwelling in caverns around,
O softly, “thy wings of light, wings of light,” cried;
And others caught up the clear silvery sound,
And sang “to thine arms,” and in singing they died.
O softly, “thy wings of light, wings of light,” cried;
And others caught up the clear silvery sound,
And sang “to thine arms,” and in singing they died.
And who then was that spirit, she
Was calling now from a far countree?
Was calling now from a far countree?
Oh! he was once an orphan child,
A wayward youth, a minstrel wild;—
Yes, once an orphan child was he,
Now drown'd in tears, now bright with glee;—
Who with his wild harp's trancing tone,
And his wild visions all his own,
Sang at her noble father's call
To the princely guests of Sir Manfred's hall.
With her his young years came and went,—
Oh happy years for ever past!
She could remember when they bent
Their footsteps (prattlers innocent)
Together over hill and dale,
When he his wild enwoven tale
Would fling to the fitful mountain blast.
For from a child he loved to play
With that his harp, and she the while
Would watch his boyish fingers stray,
And repay him well with her own sunny smile.
That thrilling harp! his playmate wild—
'Twas the only thing beside him lying,
When he was found, an orphan child,
By the castle wall alone and dying.
A wayward youth, a minstrel wild;—
Yes, once an orphan child was he,
Now drown'd in tears, now bright with glee;—
140
And his wild visions all his own,
Sang at her noble father's call
To the princely guests of Sir Manfred's hall.
With her his young years came and went,—
Oh happy years for ever past!
She could remember when they bent
Their footsteps (prattlers innocent)
Together over hill and dale,
When he his wild enwoven tale
Would fling to the fitful mountain blast.
For from a child he loved to play
With that his harp, and she the while
Would watch his boyish fingers stray,
And repay him well with her own sunny smile.
That thrilling harp! his playmate wild—
'Twas the only thing beside him lying,
When he was found, an orphan child,
By the castle wall alone and dying.
In peace the happy infant years
Of Hoel flew, unmix'd with tears;
But when thirteen summers—brief were they!—
Of his young life had glided away,
Young Ceruline with her sire cross'd o'er
The ocean blue for a distant shore;
And for five slow years,—oh! long were they—
Still chased returning by delay.
Often he sate the weary while
From morn to even on the rampart pile,
And gazed on the waves intensely long,—
And wove a wild and mournful song,
And scarcely knowing his fingers moved
Sang her he scarcely knew he loved.
Of Hoel flew, unmix'd with tears;
141
Of his young life had glided away,
Young Ceruline with her sire cross'd o'er
The ocean blue for a distant shore;
And for five slow years,—oh! long were they—
Still chased returning by delay.
Often he sate the weary while
From morn to even on the rampart pile,
And gazed on the waves intensely long,—
And wove a wild and mournful song,
And scarcely knowing his fingers moved
Sang her he scarcely knew he loved.
One night he was watching the soft moon pour
Her silvery light the blue wavelets o'er,
When he saw a distant speck of white,
Gleaming beneath the swift moonlight:
Up straight-way leapt that orphan boy,
And held his breath for very joy—
But a speck of white, and dark below—
Yet Hoel told full true, I ween,
And shouted—“A sail—that sail I know—
'Tis she!—'tis she!—'tis Ceruline!”
And the clarions rang, and the trumpets clang,
And Hoel, he leapt, and wept, and sang,
While crowded to the castle wall
The castle's inmates one and all.
Nearer the stately vessel comes,
Louder beat the castle drums,
Her flags and banners streaming were,
Dear hands were waved to welcome her;
But the first that greeted to his land
Sir Manfred, was the minstrel boy,
The first to clasp the trembling hand
Of Ceruline, who wept for joy.
Her silvery light the blue wavelets o'er,
When he saw a distant speck of white,
Gleaming beneath the swift moonlight:
Up straight-way leapt that orphan boy,
And held his breath for very joy—
But a speck of white, and dark below—
Yet Hoel told full true, I ween,
And shouted—“A sail—that sail I know—
'Tis she!—'tis she!—'tis Ceruline!”
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And Hoel, he leapt, and wept, and sang,
While crowded to the castle wall
The castle's inmates one and all.
Nearer the stately vessel comes,
Louder beat the castle drums,
Her flags and banners streaming were,
Dear hands were waved to welcome her;
But the first that greeted to his land
Sir Manfred, was the minstrel boy,
The first to clasp the trembling hand
Of Ceruline, who wept for joy.
But when the first flush of bliss had fled,
His heart within him sank like lead;
He felt, he knew, that now no more
They could roam as heretofore.
'Tis true, she wept, when he played again
With quivering hand her favourite strain;
Yet she sate not now beside his lyre,
But far from him by her noble sire:—
And he knew, he felt, that now no more
They should be one as heretofore.
She was her father's proudest joy
And he a homeless orphan boy.
And again he sate the weary while
From morn to eve on the rampart pile,
And gazed on her turret intensely long,
And wove the same most plaintive song,
And scarcely knowing his fingers moved
Sang her he deeply felt he loved.
His heart within him sank like lead;
He felt, he knew, that now no more
They could roam as heretofore.
'Tis true, she wept, when he played again
With quivering hand her favourite strain;
Yet she sate not now beside his lyre,
But far from him by her noble sire:—
And he knew, he felt, that now no more
They should be one as heretofore.
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And he a homeless orphan boy.
And again he sate the weary while
From morn to eve on the rampart pile,
And gazed on her turret intensely long,
And wove the same most plaintive song,
And scarcely knowing his fingers moved
Sang her he deeply felt he loved.
And she, although he knew it not,
Listen'd the while in some unknown spot;
For he sang a strain all wild and free
Of the fadeless joys of the far countree;
Where those who love are never parted,
But all are one and all true-hearted:—
And still there came in every scene
The spirit of young Ceruline.
Anon his fancy soar'd on high
On its own free wings to its own free sky,
And revell'd 'mid dreams of clouds and night,
Riven by troubled gleams of light,
Where faery steeds with faery cars
Wander'd away through the chime of stars;—
But ever in storm or light serene
He was there and Ceruline.
Listen'd the while in some unknown spot;
For he sang a strain all wild and free
Of the fadeless joys of the far countree;
Where those who love are never parted,
But all are one and all true-hearted:—
And still there came in every scene
The spirit of young Ceruline.
Anon his fancy soar'd on high
On its own free wings to its own free sky,
And revell'd 'mid dreams of clouds and night,
Riven by troubled gleams of light,
Where faery steeds with faery cars
Wander'd away through the chime of stars;—
144
He was there and Ceruline.
She listen'd saying, none could chide—
He knew not, she was close beside.
And oh! he was the only one
With whom her heart found sympathy,
Ever warm and ever free;
In whom her spirit's every tone
Was echoed truer than her own.
The strains he loved, the legends wild
That he would sing of from a child,
His tones of minstrelsy and song,
These, too, were her delight erelong:
And dreams that strange to others were
Seem'd like familiar things to her.
Could wealth, could power, could princely friends
For a kindred spirit make amends?
Yet all were sorrow, sin, distress,
Without her father's fond caress.
He knew not, she was close beside.
And oh! he was the only one
With whom her heart found sympathy,
Ever warm and ever free;
In whom her spirit's every tone
Was echoed truer than her own.
The strains he loved, the legends wild
That he would sing of from a child,
His tones of minstrelsy and song,
These, too, were her delight erelong:
And dreams that strange to others were
Seem'd like familiar things to her.
Could wealth, could power, could princely friends
For a kindred spirit make amends?
Yet all were sorrow, sin, distress,
Without her father's fond caress.
That very eve she wander'd late
Lonely and sad the walls along
And Hoel o'er the castle gate
Still sang a wild and mournful song:
And seeing her lonely wandering there,
His heart beat quick,—his music died:—
One moment saw him on the stair,
Another by the lady's side.
And never till that hour had he
Whisper'd his heart-thoughts in her ear,—
Never till that moment she
Deem'd she had loved him, loved so dear.
But soon she woke to consciousness,—
The spell had left her soul, I guess.
A trembling strange, a shuddering came
Over her slight and lovely frame,
And she cried, “What, Hoel, thine for ever?
“My father! never, Hoel, never.”
Her voice low-falter'd, and as she cried
“Never,” she fainted by his side.
Lonely and sad the walls along
145
Still sang a wild and mournful song:
And seeing her lonely wandering there,
His heart beat quick,—his music died:—
One moment saw him on the stair,
Another by the lady's side.
And never till that hour had he
Whisper'd his heart-thoughts in her ear,—
Never till that moment she
Deem'd she had loved him, loved so dear.
But soon she woke to consciousness,—
The spell had left her soul, I guess.
A trembling strange, a shuddering came
Over her slight and lovely frame,
And she cried, “What, Hoel, thine for ever?
“My father! never, Hoel, never.”
Her voice low-falter'd, and as she cried
“Never,” she fainted by his side.
Young Hoel raised her in his arms,
His love it was the best of charms!
For soon the lady sat upright,
And open'd her eye to the soft moonlight;
And hasted then, and round her drew
Her thin light-floating robe of blue—
But the smile had left her faded cheek,
And with hollow voice she scarce could speak,
“My father! flee, oh! haste thee, flee—
My Hoel, I have murder'd thee!”
“Oh, cheer thee,” said that minstrel wild,
Oh, cheer thee—thou art Manfred's child.
Thy Hoel,—death is welcome so.”
She only whisper'd, “Woe! woe! woe!”
And passing from his startled view,
To her chamber swift withdrew;
And Hoel again on the rampart strong
Kept singing a wild, yet hopeful song.
His love it was the best of charms!
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And open'd her eye to the soft moonlight;
And hasted then, and round her drew
Her thin light-floating robe of blue—
But the smile had left her faded cheek,
And with hollow voice she scarce could speak,
“My father! flee, oh! haste thee, flee—
My Hoel, I have murder'd thee!”
“Oh, cheer thee,” said that minstrel wild,
Oh, cheer thee—thou art Manfred's child.
Thy Hoel,—death is welcome so.”
She only whisper'd, “Woe! woe! woe!”
And passing from his startled view,
To her chamber swift withdrew;
And Hoel again on the rampart strong
Kept singing a wild, yet hopeful song.
Play, minstrel, play, for never more
Will thy fingers sweep those harpstrings o'er;
Sing, minstrel, sing, for never again
Will the wild air echo thy wayward strain.
The haughty baron's ear hath heard
Thy love's scarce felt, scarce whisper'd word.
The baron's haughty eye hath seen
His minstrel with his Ceruline.
Will thy fingers sweep those harpstrings o'er;
Sing, minstrel, sing, for never again
Will the wild air echo thy wayward strain.
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Thy love's scarce felt, scarce whisper'd word.
The baron's haughty eye hath seen
His minstrel with his Ceruline.
The lady sleeps, but restlessly;
She hath counted the chimes—one—two—and three.
The moon has sunk, and the clouds on high
Have blinded each star with its dewy eye.
She started up,—her hand she press'd
On the heart that ached in an aching breast,
And she hath laid her down again
All listlessly, as if in pain.
The zephyrs, last eve like a mermaid's song,
Now moan with their fitful blast along.
The lady sprang up from the bed,
And thrice she whisper'd, “Dead! dead! dead!”
Hush, Ceruline! 'twas but the blast
That moaning round thy casement pass'd.
“Dead!” she cried; “'twas his dying shriek!”
Nor, horror-stricken, more durst speak.
Hush, Ceruline! 'twas but the roar
Of the ocean surges on the shore.
Oh! calm thee, fearful Ceruline,
'Twas the ocean roar I surely ween.
She listens with intensest thought,
Her ear each painful echo caught,
And she heard through the castle hall below
Her father's footsteps swiftly go,
(For never need twice be heard or told
The lofty step of Sir Manfred bold,)
And she heard him to another say,—
“Away!—a horrid task—away!”
She hath counted the chimes—one—two—and three.
The moon has sunk, and the clouds on high
Have blinded each star with its dewy eye.
She started up,—her hand she press'd
On the heart that ached in an aching breast,
And she hath laid her down again
All listlessly, as if in pain.
The zephyrs, last eve like a mermaid's song,
Now moan with their fitful blast along.
The lady sprang up from the bed,
And thrice she whisper'd, “Dead! dead! dead!”
Hush, Ceruline! 'twas but the blast
That moaning round thy casement pass'd.
“Dead!” she cried; “'twas his dying shriek!”
Nor, horror-stricken, more durst speak.
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Of the ocean surges on the shore.
Oh! calm thee, fearful Ceruline,
'Twas the ocean roar I surely ween.
She listens with intensest thought,
Her ear each painful echo caught,
And she heard through the castle hall below
Her father's footsteps swiftly go,
(For never need twice be heard or told
The lofty step of Sir Manfred bold,)
And she heard him to another say,—
“Away!—a horrid task—away!”
The lady sank down on the bed,
And swoon'd away as she was dead;
And in the morning there she lay,
Alive or not 'twere hard to say.
And her maidens, one and all, were moved
To see the lady that they loved;
Her casement open, her straggling hair,
Dank with the dew on her bosom fair,
And her chill lips open, as in prayer.
And swoon'd away as she was dead;
And in the morning there she lay,
Alive or not 'twere hard to say.
And her maidens, one and all, were moved
To see the lady that they loved;
Her casement open, her straggling hair,
Dank with the dew on her bosom fair,
And her chill lips open, as in prayer.
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But she rose up and coldly smiled
As they tended her with thought and care,
And nerved her soul as one beguiled;
And went down at her father's call
To the princely guests of Sir Manfred's hall.
As they tended her with thought and care,
And nerved her soul as one beguiled;
And went down at her father's call
To the princely guests of Sir Manfred's hall.
That morning (Heaven shield us from sin!)
At the foot of the castle wall within,
Was found with his harp—his only joy—
The mangled corse of the minstrel boy.
Of his harp (oh deep and wondrous token!)
Not one frail string was found unbroken;
Its master spirit had flown away,
And why should its tones of music stay?
One thrill of horror ran through all,—
One groan of anguish fill'd the hall,—
When the body of Hoel, cold and torn,
Into the hall was slowly borne;
Yet still the same high, speaking brow,
Though stain'd with blood and pallid now.
They groan'd—but to gaze they could not bear;
And Sir Manfred's groan was the loudest there.
At the foot of the castle wall within,
Was found with his harp—his only joy—
The mangled corse of the minstrel boy.
Of his harp (oh deep and wondrous token!)
Not one frail string was found unbroken;
Its master spirit had flown away,
And why should its tones of music stay?
One thrill of horror ran through all,—
One groan of anguish fill'd the hall,—
When the body of Hoel, cold and torn,
Into the hall was slowly borne;
Yet still the same high, speaking brow,
Though stain'd with blood and pallid now.
They groan'd—but to gaze they could not bear;
And Sir Manfred's groan was the loudest there.
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And many cover'd their throbbing eyes,
And wept in silence o'er his bier,—
A mournful band in mournful wise,—
Nor was there wanting Sir Manfred's tear.
But Ceruline nor groan'd, nor wept;
She seem'd like one who saw and slept.
Cold was her dark and sunken eye,
Her bosom heaved not, throbb'd not now;
Her hands alone in agony
Were clasp'd across her fever'd brow.
But one there was—the seneschal—
Who, as he wept young Hoel's fall,
Read in her cold, regardless mien,
The bleeding heart of Ceruline;—
Saw in her unimpassion'd air
The hidden anguish burning there.
And wept in silence o'er his bier,—
A mournful band in mournful wise,—
Nor was there wanting Sir Manfred's tear.
But Ceruline nor groan'd, nor wept;
She seem'd like one who saw and slept.
Cold was her dark and sunken eye,
Her bosom heaved not, throbb'd not now;
Her hands alone in agony
Were clasp'd across her fever'd brow.
But one there was—the seneschal—
Who, as he wept young Hoel's fall,
Read in her cold, regardless mien,
The bleeding heart of Ceruline;—
Saw in her unimpassion'd air
The hidden anguish burning there.
And when the evening sun was sinking,
And the sinless flowers their night-dews drinking,
He went alone to her chamber door
With the minstrel's mantle—and no more.
Enough, enough! he need not tell
The mournful task she knew too well;
And the seneschal was kind and true—
Words should not rend her bosom too.
She knew the token, and straightway
Follow'd to where the minstrel lay.
The old man wrapp'd his mantle round,—
Sad winding-sheet—and from the ground
Sweet Ceruline,—though she trembled much—
Took up the lyre he loved to touch.
The old man led the way, and she
Stole after, weeping silently.
With hurried step, those wanderers late
Came to the castle's outer gate.
It open'd to the seneschal,
And they pass'd out beyond the wall:
But when they had won the skirts o' the wood,
As if in doubt, the old man stood,
And, weeping, Ceruline anon
Took the lead, and hurried on.
And the sinless flowers their night-dews drinking,
He went alone to her chamber door
With the minstrel's mantle—and no more.
Enough, enough! he need not tell
The mournful task she knew too well;
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Words should not rend her bosom too.
She knew the token, and straightway
Follow'd to where the minstrel lay.
The old man wrapp'd his mantle round,—
Sad winding-sheet—and from the ground
Sweet Ceruline,—though she trembled much—
Took up the lyre he loved to touch.
The old man led the way, and she
Stole after, weeping silently.
With hurried step, those wanderers late
Came to the castle's outer gate.
It open'd to the seneschal,
And they pass'd out beyond the wall:
But when they had won the skirts o' the wood,
As if in doubt, the old man stood,
And, weeping, Ceruline anon
Took the lead, and hurried on.
Through lonesome paths which none frequent
That mournful pair in silence went;
The crescent moon, with flickering ray,
Glimmer'd faint on their weary way;
Loud gush'd the rills, the forests moan'd,
Their deep lament the night-winds groan'd,
And now and then the sky would shed
A few brief tear-drops on their head.
The old man's heart was desolate,—
And dread to grief is near akin,—
And Hoel's corse—a lifeless weight—
Hung on his arms like a load of sin.
And still through paths which none frequent
His weeping guide before him went.
That mournful pair in silence went;
The crescent moon, with flickering ray,
Glimmer'd faint on their weary way;
152
Their deep lament the night-winds groan'd,
And now and then the sky would shed
A few brief tear-drops on their head.
The old man's heart was desolate,—
And dread to grief is near akin,—
And Hoel's corse—a lifeless weight—
Hung on his arms like a load of sin.
And still through paths which none frequent
His weeping guide before him went.
At length sad Ceruline stood still
Beside a dark and gushing rill;
She trembled once, she gave one moan,
As she pointed to a mossy stone;
And the old man, by the gushing wave,
At once began to scoop the grave.
Sad, maiden, sad is thy hard lot!
This is the stone, and this the spot,
And this the very night, I ween,—
Though five long years have come between,—
Where he sang his parting song to thee,
Ere thou didst cross the envious sea.
The old man now hath scoop'd the grave
Hard beside the gushing wave,
Again hath wrapp'd the mantle round
Young Hoel's form; and from the ground
Lifted the body up with care....
Hark! what sound—what strain is there?
The minstrel's harp-strings, one and all,
Were broken in the minstrel's fall;
But, like a spirit sound, there came
Sad music from that broken frame,
And moan'd a requiem for the dead—
A requiem o'er his lonely bed.
Sweet Ceruline! her eye grew bright
Beneath the flickering moonbeam's light,
And she cried, ere ceased the music's swell,
“Bury it too—he loved it well.”
Beside a dark and gushing rill;
She trembled once, she gave one moan,
As she pointed to a mossy stone;
And the old man, by the gushing wave,
At once began to scoop the grave.
Sad, maiden, sad is thy hard lot!
This is the stone, and this the spot,
And this the very night, I ween,—
Though five long years have come between,—
Where he sang his parting song to thee,
Ere thou didst cross the envious sea.
153
Hard beside the gushing wave,
Again hath wrapp'd the mantle round
Young Hoel's form; and from the ground
Lifted the body up with care....
Hark! what sound—what strain is there?
The minstrel's harp-strings, one and all,
Were broken in the minstrel's fall;
But, like a spirit sound, there came
Sad music from that broken frame,
And moan'd a requiem for the dead—
A requiem o'er his lonely bed.
Sweet Ceruline! her eye grew bright
Beneath the flickering moonbeam's light,
And she cried, ere ceased the music's swell,
“Bury it too—he loved it well.”
Soon their task—too soon—was done;
Then from her breast a cross she took,
And set it on the mossy stone
Beside the sadly-moaning brook.
That magic sound! that wondrous strain!
The lady's eye was bright again!
And she press'd her hand upon her brow,
Then softly whisper'd “homeward now;”
And through lonesome paths, which none frequent,
Those wanderers back in silence went.
Then from her breast a cross she took,
And set it on the mossy stone
Beside the sadly-moaning brook.
That magic sound! that wondrous strain!
The lady's eye was bright again!
154
Then softly whisper'd “homeward now;”
And through lonesome paths, which none frequent,
Those wanderers back in silence went.
Many a night and many a day
Came she there to weep and pray;
Her eye was bright, her footstep free,—
She hath heard the strain of a far countree!
But a troubled shade of anguish now
Sate on her pale and sorrowful brow,
Whenever she enter'd the princely dome
Of her sire, Sir Manfred's home.
She saw, she mark'd, and only she,
The anguish hid in a murderer's glee.
He said he had strange dreams,—strange they were;
Wild was his woe, his laughter wild;
He laugh'd, he smiled, but even on her,—
Not like Sir Manfred on his child.
Her heart was broken, I surmise,
Yet, till its throbbing pulse grew cold,
With sad but unreproachful eyes
She watch'd him meekly as of old.
Came she there to weep and pray;
Her eye was bright, her footstep free,—
She hath heard the strain of a far countree!
But a troubled shade of anguish now
Sate on her pale and sorrowful brow,
Whenever she enter'd the princely dome
Of her sire, Sir Manfred's home.
She saw, she mark'd, and only she,
The anguish hid in a murderer's glee.
He said he had strange dreams,—strange they were;
Wild was his woe, his laughter wild;
He laugh'd, he smiled, but even on her,—
Not like Sir Manfred on his child.
Her heart was broken, I surmise,
Yet, till its throbbing pulse grew cold,
With sad but unreproachful eyes
She watch'd him meekly as of old.
155
Many a night and many a day
Came she there to weep and pray.
'Mid the autumn's dying leaves,
And the snow of wintry eves,
And the tears and the smiles of the reckless spring,
And the summer's golden welcoming,
In secret pilgrimage alone
She hath pray'd at that mossy stone.
And now twelve dreary months have pass'd
Since she on Hoel look'd her last;
And the banquet's light may glitter bright,
She will not be away to-night.
What charm hath music or dance on her,
Whose soul is knit to the things that were?
Still upward roams her bright, dark eye,
If once to see him ere she die.
And this was the blessed spirit she
Was calling now from the far countree.
Came she there to weep and pray.
'Mid the autumn's dying leaves,
And the snow of wintry eves,
And the tears and the smiles of the reckless spring,
And the summer's golden welcoming,
In secret pilgrimage alone
She hath pray'd at that mossy stone.
And now twelve dreary months have pass'd
Since she on Hoel look'd her last;
And the banquet's light may glitter bright,
She will not be away to-night.
What charm hath music or dance on her,
Whose soul is knit to the things that were?
Still upward roams her bright, dark eye,
If once to see him ere she die.
And this was the blessed spirit she
Was calling now from the far countree.
156
II. PART II.
Like those who enter unaware
At night upon a lampless shrine,
When silent the voice of nightly prayer,
And silent the chant of praise divine,
Yet they entranced stand the while,
For wondrous organ-tones are stealing
Like spirits through each shadowy aisle,
And dying away on the vaulted ceiling.
So tranced was Ceruline, when she
First heard again strange melody
Steal round her, as from a far countree.
She could not dream,—it came again,—
She heard the same wild magic strain.
She heard?—she saw at her right hand
A spirit, her own minstrel, stand.
She could not dream,—he smiled on her,
And love, oh love! can never err!
'Twas his own smile, 'twas his own eye,
But bright like theirs beyond the sky;
And he held a lyret in his hand,
One of the lyres of that distant land;
And even the trembling, earthly blast,
Won thence heaven's music as it pass'd.
Dreams scarce could tell, no tongue declare
The raptures of that meeting there;
The thrill of his voice was spirit-love,
Sweet echo, sure, of theirs above,
As he whisper'd he would have come ere now,
But could not break his heavenly vow,
Till she for a weary year had come
Unwearied to his lonely tomb.
And drawing closer to her side
Thus that spirit-minstrel cried:—
At night upon a lampless shrine,
When silent the voice of nightly prayer,
And silent the chant of praise divine,
Yet they entranced stand the while,
For wondrous organ-tones are stealing
Like spirits through each shadowy aisle,
And dying away on the vaulted ceiling.
So tranced was Ceruline, when she
First heard again strange melody
Steal round her, as from a far countree.
She could not dream,—it came again,—
She heard the same wild magic strain.
She heard?—she saw at her right hand
A spirit, her own minstrel, stand.
She could not dream,—he smiled on her,
And love, oh love! can never err!
157
But bright like theirs beyond the sky;
And he held a lyret in his hand,
One of the lyres of that distant land;
And even the trembling, earthly blast,
Won thence heaven's music as it pass'd.
Dreams scarce could tell, no tongue declare
The raptures of that meeting there;
The thrill of his voice was spirit-love,
Sweet echo, sure, of theirs above,
As he whisper'd he would have come ere now,
But could not break his heavenly vow,
Till she for a weary year had come
Unwearied to his lonely tomb.
And drawing closer to her side
Thus that spirit-minstrel cried:—
“My home is in the far countree,
This sorrowful earth imprisons thee:
Grief shadows thine, joy blooms o'er mine,
But oh! my own sweet Ceruline,
The bridge of death lies yet between;
Say, wilt thou cross to the blessed sky?—
Oh ponder well, for thou must die.”
She ponder'd not, on his neck she fell,
Crying, “I will come with thee,
Thy home it is mine in the far countree;—
My father, take my last farewell!”
This sorrowful earth imprisons thee:
158
But oh! my own sweet Ceruline,
The bridge of death lies yet between;
Say, wilt thou cross to the blessed sky?—
Oh ponder well, for thou must die.”
She ponder'd not, on his neck she fell,
Crying, “I will come with thee,
Thy home it is mine in the far countree;—
My father, take my last farewell!”
Straightway the minstrel touch'd the wire
Of his wild and charmèd lyre;
Straightway heavenly music stole,
Thrilling the ear and trancing the soul....
There was a light cloud floating high,
Just beneath pale Cynthia's eye,
Meet to be an airy car
To glide away from star to star;
For when that music began to flow,
At once it floated down below,
Hung like a mist for a moment o'er them,
Then lay in the bed of the rill before them.
He kiss'd her once, that minstrel wild,
And she blush'd for joy, and for joy she smiled;
He kiss'd her twice,—her colour went,
And came again, and died, and came,—
She felt a thrill of rapture sent
Like lightning through her trembling frame;
He kiss'd her thrice,—and the beautiful soul
Rose from its earthly bond's control:
The same in beauty, form, and height,
But all transfused as it were to light.
“Now,” Hoel cried, “all one with me;”
She whisper'd, “One—yes, one with thee!”
Of his wild and charmèd lyre;
Straightway heavenly music stole,
Thrilling the ear and trancing the soul....
There was a light cloud floating high,
Just beneath pale Cynthia's eye,
Meet to be an airy car
To glide away from star to star;
For when that music began to flow,
At once it floated down below,
Hung like a mist for a moment o'er them,
Then lay in the bed of the rill before them.
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And she blush'd for joy, and for joy she smiled;
He kiss'd her twice,—her colour went,
And came again, and died, and came,—
She felt a thrill of rapture sent
Like lightning through her trembling frame;
He kiss'd her thrice,—and the beautiful soul
Rose from its earthly bond's control:
The same in beauty, form, and height,
But all transfused as it were to light.
“Now,” Hoel cried, “all one with me;”
She whisper'd, “One—yes, one with thee!”
And hand in hand they lightly flew
To that car of silver hue.
A car—nay, rather a heavenly skiff,
Meet to steer for a heavenly cliff.
A skiff—there are no sailyards there,
And no sails to catch the wingèd air.
A car—a skiff—oh cease, be still;
It is of a wild and far countree,
And nothing on earth can like it be,—
It lieth now in the bed of the rill,
Waiting, Ceruline, for thee.
Till, as a wave bears up the wind,
They in a moment there reclined.
The blue heavens stretch'd their curtains bright
O'er many happy hearts that night,
But not on happier, as I ween,
Than Hoel and young Ceruline.
To that car of silver hue.
A car—nay, rather a heavenly skiff,
Meet to steer for a heavenly cliff.
A skiff—there are no sailyards there,
And no sails to catch the wingèd air.
160
It is of a wild and far countree,
And nothing on earth can like it be,—
It lieth now in the bed of the rill,
Waiting, Ceruline, for thee.
Till, as a wave bears up the wind,
They in a moment there reclined.
The blue heavens stretch'd their curtains bright
O'er many happy hearts that night,
But not on happier, as I ween,
Than Hoel and young Ceruline.
O wondrous is the union link'd
'Twixt music and all other things!
At once the car, as with thought instinct,
Began to wave its under wings,
When it heard the music flow
From Hoel's harp-strings faint and slow.
Faint and slow was the music's tone,
And slowly did the car move on.
Over the forests, over the hills,
It floated like a dewy mist
Which the sun sometimes distils,
When he looks down from the snowy hills,
Right on the sea, which his beams have kiss'd.
Over the forests, over the glades,
Just above the woodland shades,
And lo! in sight of the castle now,
It hovers o'er the hill-top brow.
The music's murmur was faint and low,
And the car it floated soft and slow.
Over the little vale it pass'd,
And over the lady's secret bower,
And the fatal wall,—is it the blast
That groans from out Sir Manfred's tower?
The music's echo was well-nigh gone,
And the car it scarcely floated on.
“Oh touch thy lyret, Hoel, dear!”
Cried Ceruline, as if in fear.
But Hoel heard not,—perchance he slept,
Or a vision round his spirit swept.
A second groan, more loud and deep,
Broke from that tower where none may sleep.
“Haste, Hoel, haste!” cried Ceruline.
He surely could not have heard, I ween:
When a third long and deep-drawn groan
Pierced the heart with its chilling tone.
“'Tis my father! Yes, I know that shriek!
Haste, Hoel, haste!” He did not speak;
But yet he sigh'd, though he answer'd not.
The car was charm'd o'er the fatal spot!
'Twixt music and all other things!
At once the car, as with thought instinct,
Began to wave its under wings,
When it heard the music flow
From Hoel's harp-strings faint and slow.
Faint and slow was the music's tone,
And slowly did the car move on.
Over the forests, over the hills,
It floated like a dewy mist
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When he looks down from the snowy hills,
Right on the sea, which his beams have kiss'd.
Over the forests, over the glades,
Just above the woodland shades,
And lo! in sight of the castle now,
It hovers o'er the hill-top brow.
The music's murmur was faint and low,
And the car it floated soft and slow.
Over the little vale it pass'd,
And over the lady's secret bower,
And the fatal wall,—is it the blast
That groans from out Sir Manfred's tower?
The music's echo was well-nigh gone,
And the car it scarcely floated on.
“Oh touch thy lyret, Hoel, dear!”
Cried Ceruline, as if in fear.
But Hoel heard not,—perchance he slept,
Or a vision round his spirit swept.
A second groan, more loud and deep,
Broke from that tower where none may sleep.
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He surely could not have heard, I ween:
When a third long and deep-drawn groan
Pierced the heart with its chilling tone.
“'Tis my father! Yes, I know that shriek!
Haste, Hoel, haste!” He did not speak;
But yet he sigh'd, though he answer'd not.
The car was charm'd o'er the fatal spot!
That moment (Heaven be praised well!)
Began the chime of the castle bell,
And as its silvery tones arose
More heavenly music with it flows.
'Twas the midnight chant the virgins young
Ever and aye at that night-hour sung;
And at the first tones of that music faint
The car was free from the charm's restraint!
And Hoel touch'd the silvery wire
Of his silvery warbling lyre.
“Now thank thee, thank thee, Hoel dear!”
Cried Ceruline, no more in fear.
Began the chime of the castle bell,
And as its silvery tones arose
More heavenly music with it flows.
'Twas the midnight chant the virgins young
Ever and aye at that night-hour sung;
And at the first tones of that music faint
The car was free from the charm's restraint!
And Hoel touch'd the silvery wire
Of his silvery warbling lyre.
“Now thank thee, thank thee, Hoel dear!”
Cried Ceruline, no more in fear.
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Happy, thrice happy wanderers they,
Slow soaring on their heavenward way!
Nothing their wingèd course to check,—
All blue above, around them blue!
Her arms about young Hoel's neck
Glad Ceruline in raptures threw,
And ask'd, with trembling tones, and wild,
“What strange spell there our car beguiled?”
Nor waited she, but in a tone
More trembling still did thus speak on,—
“Oh! tell me of that fearful night:
I left thee 'mid the soft moonlight,
And thou upon the tempest strong
Wert weaving a strangely joyous song.
Soon faded the soft moonlight away,
And soon, too, died thy wild harp's lay.
That night a frightful dream I dream'd,—
I thought we stood on a fearful height,
All beneath wild darkness seem'd,
Tossing waves and gulfs of night,—
When there came from forth the bright blue skies
A beautiful maiden with bright blue eyes;
And she floated o'er us soft along,
And winningly ask'd for a minstrel's song.
And thou didst sing,—for bright was she—
And I was leaning over thee—
Bright was she, and thou didst sing
Sweet even for thy lyret's string,
When swiftly, swifter than the wind,
All unawares she stole behind,
And thrust—blue was her eye and bright,
Soft was her hand and snowy white—
Curse on her eye so bright and blue,
Curse on that hand so white of hue—
She thrust us, ere we could pray or speak,
Down from that mountain's dizzy peak.
Wild looming darkness round our feet,
Our arms the empty air did beat,—
Like shipwreck'd men, who cannot die,
Though fain amid the storm to drown,
With a whirling brain, and a giddy eye,
Down we sank, we flutter'd down....
And with the fright I sat upright,
And gazed out on the alter'd night.
And I listen'd. Oh, the dream I had dream'd
Most hard to feel and frightful seem'd;
But more frightful still and dread to see
Coldly flash'd the truth on me.
That maiden was fair, and most untrue,
Yet she cast us together in our fall:
Now thou wert gone, and who, oh who
Can the woe of her that was left recall?”
Slow soaring on their heavenward way!
Nothing their wingèd course to check,—
All blue above, around them blue!
Her arms about young Hoel's neck
Glad Ceruline in raptures threw,
And ask'd, with trembling tones, and wild,
“What strange spell there our car beguiled?”
Nor waited she, but in a tone
More trembling still did thus speak on,—
“Oh! tell me of that fearful night:
I left thee 'mid the soft moonlight,
And thou upon the tempest strong
Wert weaving a strangely joyous song.
Soon faded the soft moonlight away,
And soon, too, died thy wild harp's lay.
That night a frightful dream I dream'd,—
I thought we stood on a fearful height,
All beneath wild darkness seem'd,
Tossing waves and gulfs of night,—
When there came from forth the bright blue skies
A beautiful maiden with bright blue eyes;
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And winningly ask'd for a minstrel's song.
And thou didst sing,—for bright was she—
And I was leaning over thee—
Bright was she, and thou didst sing
Sweet even for thy lyret's string,
When swiftly, swifter than the wind,
All unawares she stole behind,
And thrust—blue was her eye and bright,
Soft was her hand and snowy white—
Curse on her eye so bright and blue,
Curse on that hand so white of hue—
She thrust us, ere we could pray or speak,
Down from that mountain's dizzy peak.
Wild looming darkness round our feet,
Our arms the empty air did beat,—
Like shipwreck'd men, who cannot die,
Though fain amid the storm to drown,
With a whirling brain, and a giddy eye,
Down we sank, we flutter'd down....
And with the fright I sat upright,
And gazed out on the alter'd night.
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Most hard to feel and frightful seem'd;
But more frightful still and dread to see
Coldly flash'd the truth on me.
That maiden was fair, and most untrue,
Yet she cast us together in our fall:
Now thou wert gone, and who, oh who
Can the woe of her that was left recall?”
Her tears away the minstrel kiss'd,
But some of his own fell on her wrist
As he cried, with softest voice serene,
“O hush thee! hush thee! Ceruline!
Mercy draws, with her first caress,
A mantle of forgetfulness
O'er every scene of wrong and woe
We may have suffer'd there below.
Blest be that pierceless veil between!
Oh! lift it not, dear Ceruline!
I did but guide our wingèd car
Under the spells of the evening star,
That while it floated o'er the towers,
Where Sir Manfred moans the midnight hours,
I might breathe beneath that sacred fire
One prayer for him, thine own dear sire;
And know that, before to-morrow flee,
Thy father at thy side shall be.”
But some of his own fell on her wrist
As he cried, with softest voice serene,
“O hush thee! hush thee! Ceruline!
Mercy draws, with her first caress,
A mantle of forgetfulness
O'er every scene of wrong and woe
We may have suffer'd there below.
Blest be that pierceless veil between!
Oh! lift it not, dear Ceruline!
I did but guide our wingèd car
Under the spells of the evening star,
That while it floated o'er the towers,
Where Sir Manfred moans the midnight hours,
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One prayer for him, thine own dear sire;
And know that, before to-morrow flee,
Thy father at thy side shall be.”
'Twere sweet, I wis, to see how bright
Grew the eye of Ceruline;
Her heart was full of love and light,
And the eye, it spake of the depths within.
Oh beautiful as light was she!
Never may mortal such beauty see.
The tresses wild of her flowing hair
Wanton'd with the playful air;
And like the hues with the soft waves blent
Her sudden blushes came and went.
How gently heaved her breast of snow!
How fondly round Hoel her arms did cling!
And round about her feet did flow
Her heavenly-wrought apparelling!
But oh! had ye been there, I ween,
Ye would not her tresses wild have seen,
Ye would not have mark'd her raiment's flow,
Her blushes swift, her breast of snow;
One spell, like a dewdrop 'mid clusters of flowers,
Would have fixed your gaze with its trancing powers,
The soul that lay in her dark bright eye,
The glance of immortality.
Grew the eye of Ceruline;
Her heart was full of love and light,
And the eye, it spake of the depths within.
Oh beautiful as light was she!
Never may mortal such beauty see.
The tresses wild of her flowing hair
Wanton'd with the playful air;
And like the hues with the soft waves blent
Her sudden blushes came and went.
How gently heaved her breast of snow!
How fondly round Hoel her arms did cling!
And round about her feet did flow
Her heavenly-wrought apparelling!
But oh! had ye been there, I ween,
Ye would not her tresses wild have seen,
Ye would not have mark'd her raiment's flow,
Her blushes swift, her breast of snow;
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Would have fixed your gaze with its trancing powers,
The soul that lay in her dark bright eye,
The glance of immortality.
As one who hath an exile been,
An exile from his infant years,
Returning to the woodlands green,
Where first he shed his sunny tears,
Straineth his eye the waters o'er,
And buildeth many a phantom shore;
His bosom beating quick the while,
His face lit up with restless smile,—
As one who hath an exile been,
Such is the lovely Ceruline!
An exile from his infant years,
Returning to the woodlands green,
Where first he shed his sunny tears,
Straineth his eye the waters o'er,
And buildeth many a phantom shore;
His bosom beating quick the while,
His face lit up with restless smile,—
As one who hath an exile been,
Such is the lovely Ceruline!
Oft looks she up, as if to see
The confines soon of the far countree.
The music had been faint and low,
And the car was moving soft and slow,
But when Hoel saw her wishful eye
Searching the depths of the deep-blue sky,
Over the chords his fingers swept,
And awaking up as one who slept,
The car exultingly anon
Waved its wings, and glided on.
The confines soon of the far countree.
The music had been faint and low,
And the car was moving soft and slow,
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Searching the depths of the deep-blue sky,
Over the chords his fingers swept,
And awaking up as one who slept,
The car exultingly anon
Waved its wings, and glided on.
The strain was wild, the strain was free;
'Tis a free wild path to that far countree.
The crescent moon no longer show'd
Her silver torchlight on their road;
But they are gliding in the light
Of another empress of the night,
Hers who gave her sweet caress
To Ceruline in her distress.
A pearl-like lamp it glitter'd then
Down to the haunts of mortal men,
Now brighter far than the brightest star,
Larger it grew as on they flew,
And its light was the sun in the morning dew.
'Tis a free wild path to that far countree.
The crescent moon no longer show'd
Her silver torchlight on their road;
But they are gliding in the light
Of another empress of the night,
Hers who gave her sweet caress
To Ceruline in her distress.
A pearl-like lamp it glitter'd then
Down to the haunts of mortal men,
Now brighter far than the brightest star,
Larger it grew as on they flew,
And its light was the sun in the morning dew.
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'Tis a free wild path to that far countree,
And wild was the strain, the strain was free!
And the maiden's hair stream'd to the air,
And the minstrel's mantle flutter'd there.
Oh swiftly they glide to the smooth, swift song,
And they will be there, I ween, ere long.
And wild was the strain, the strain was free!
And the maiden's hair stream'd to the air,
And the minstrel's mantle flutter'd there.
Oh swiftly they glide to the smooth, swift song,
And they will be there, I ween, ere long.
Like a meteor's track in the blue midnight,
See how their road is mark'd with light,—
Here and there a gleam in the air,
A flash of brilliance here and there!
'Tis the lightning cast from steeds who have pass'd
Borne on the wingèd whirlwind blast,
Cast from the hoofs of heavenly steeds
That know no bridle, whom no man leads!
Away—away—the chords are ringing!
Away—the car is onward springing!
More thickly strewn are those sparks of light,—
Sure many steeds have pass'd this night.
They flash'd along the midnight sky,
They flash'd up in the lady's eye,
Till, as the chariot glided higher,
They paved the road with gleaming fire!
O! wilder than the strain so free
Is the free wild path to that far countree.
See how their road is mark'd with light,—
Here and there a gleam in the air,
A flash of brilliance here and there!
'Tis the lightning cast from steeds who have pass'd
Borne on the wingèd whirlwind blast,
Cast from the hoofs of heavenly steeds
That know no bridle, whom no man leads!
Away—away—the chords are ringing!
Away—the car is onward springing!
More thickly strewn are those sparks of light,—
Sure many steeds have pass'd this night.
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They flash'd up in the lady's eye,
Till, as the chariot glided higher,
They paved the road with gleaming fire!
O! wilder than the strain so free
Is the free wild path to that far countree.
His strain was wild—hush! listen well.
Comes there not o'er thee a softer spell?
Far off, far off is music stealing,
Softly it rose, and soft it fell,
Like the bells of the long-lost minster pealing.
Well Hoel knew those tones serene,—
None but sphere-music stealeth thus;
And his bright eye spake to Ceruline,
“They come, they come to welcome us!”
With lyrets and dances, with garlands and glee,
And hearts quite as happy as happy could be,
Came forth from the skirts of that blessed countree
A beautiful band, Ceruline, to thee.
All clad they were in robes of blue,
Like the sky when it is fairest of hue;
And unsandall'd they trod on that radiant road,
And behind them their mantles right joyously flow'd.
Like morning glaciers sunlight-gilt,
Their path was of clouds and glory built,—
Meet road, I ween, for those spirits bright,
Whose song may be heard in the lone midnight.
But lo! at the base of that cloudland hill,
At length the wondrous car stood still;
And Hoel and his beauteous fere
Sprang on those peaks of light and snow,
'Mid music of the upper sphere,
And harpings, whose echo stole down below.
And the magic car, like a meteor flame,
Floated back on the way it came;
Over the cloud, and over the road,
Where the track of the radiant chargers glow'd;
Through the long, long pathway, wild and free,
That leadeth to the far countree.
And it hangeth there beneath the moon,—
A little grey cloud, that will stoop as soon
As it hears the music flow,
That it, and it alone, can know.
Comes there not o'er thee a softer spell?
Far off, far off is music stealing,
Softly it rose, and soft it fell,
Like the bells of the long-lost minster pealing.
Well Hoel knew those tones serene,—
None but sphere-music stealeth thus;
And his bright eye spake to Ceruline,
“They come, they come to welcome us!”
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And hearts quite as happy as happy could be,
Came forth from the skirts of that blessed countree
A beautiful band, Ceruline, to thee.
All clad they were in robes of blue,
Like the sky when it is fairest of hue;
And unsandall'd they trod on that radiant road,
And behind them their mantles right joyously flow'd.
Like morning glaciers sunlight-gilt,
Their path was of clouds and glory built,—
Meet road, I ween, for those spirits bright,
Whose song may be heard in the lone midnight.
But lo! at the base of that cloudland hill,
At length the wondrous car stood still;
And Hoel and his beauteous fere
Sprang on those peaks of light and snow,
'Mid music of the upper sphere,
And harpings, whose echo stole down below.
And the magic car, like a meteor flame,
Floated back on the way it came;
Over the cloud, and over the road,
Where the track of the radiant chargers glow'd;
172
That leadeth to the far countree.
And it hangeth there beneath the moon,—
A little grey cloud, that will stoop as soon
As it hears the music flow,
That it, and it alone, can know.
But when they join'd that spirit band
The clouds rose up on either hand,
And seem'd to fold on their radiant track
Like waves that receive their treasures back.
And nought is seen in the vault of night,
Save straggling gleams and streams of light.
Cease, minstrel, cease; thy thoughts would flee
To climes too beautiful for thee.
Cease, minstrel, cease; why doth thy finger
Still on that fragile harp-string linger?
Its happiest tones can never tell
The happiness it loves so well.
Enough! the lovely Ceruline
Hath reach'd her home, its shores hath seen.
Enough! the minstrel boy hath won
The angel spirit he doated on.
Theirs is to dwell for deathless years
Where pain is not known, nor grief, nor tears;
And thine to claim as thy sister, sorrow,
And to weep to-day for the bright to-morrow.
The clouds rose up on either hand,
And seem'd to fold on their radiant track
Like waves that receive their treasures back.
And nought is seen in the vault of night,
Save straggling gleams and streams of light.
Cease, minstrel, cease; thy thoughts would flee
To climes too beautiful for thee.
Cease, minstrel, cease; why doth thy finger
Still on that fragile harp-string linger?
Its happiest tones can never tell
The happiness it loves so well.
Enough! the lovely Ceruline
Hath reach'd her home, its shores hath seen.
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The angel spirit he doated on.
Theirs is to dwell for deathless years
Where pain is not known, nor grief, nor tears;
And thine to claim as thy sister, sorrow,
And to weep to-day for the bright to-morrow.
Yes! thou must turn from the pathway bright
That leadeth up to a land of light,
More strange and fair than the fabled isles,—
A sunny land of hopes and smiles,
Down to this gloomy earth below,
Where sobs will break forth, tears will flow.
Oh! murmur not, nor yet refuse,
Heaven sheds alike its smiles and dews,
And tears must flow when comrades go.
That leadeth up to a land of light,
More strange and fair than the fabled isles,—
A sunny land of hopes and smiles,
Down to this gloomy earth below,
Where sobs will break forth, tears will flow.
Oh! murmur not, nor yet refuse,
Heaven sheds alike its smiles and dews,
And tears must flow when comrades go.
Now the seneschal was kind and true,
And he rose ere the sun smiled on the dew,
For his dreams had been troubled the live-long night—
He had heard strange sounds, he had seen strange light
And sad thoughts stole across his mind,
For the seneschal was true and kind.
So he went to Sir Manfred's turret lone:
He heard no sigh, nor whisper'd moan,—
And silence now was strange, I ween,
As groans in happier days had been.
So he cried, for he knew not what to tell,—
“Surely Sir Manfred sleepeth well.”
But, ere his voice the echo woke,
His heart belied the words he spoke.
So trembling at the door he stands,
And with one hand, and with both hands,
He gently knocks, he gently cries,—
“'Tis the morning watch; Sir Manfred, rise.”
He heard no answer, he heard no moan,
And he pray'd in a whisper's lowest tone,—
“Now Heaven defend this house from sin.”
And the old man shudder'd, and went in.
And he rose ere the sun smiled on the dew,
For his dreams had been troubled the live-long night—
He had heard strange sounds, he had seen strange light
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For the seneschal was true and kind.
So he went to Sir Manfred's turret lone:
He heard no sigh, nor whisper'd moan,—
And silence now was strange, I ween,
As groans in happier days had been.
So he cried, for he knew not what to tell,—
“Surely Sir Manfred sleepeth well.”
But, ere his voice the echo woke,
His heart belied the words he spoke.
So trembling at the door he stands,
And with one hand, and with both hands,
He gently knocks, he gently cries,—
“'Tis the morning watch; Sir Manfred, rise.”
He heard no answer, he heard no moan,
And he pray'd in a whisper's lowest tone,—
“Now Heaven defend this house from sin.”
And the old man shudder'd, and went in.
There he saw on the ruffled bed
Sir Manfred lying, cold and dead.
But oh! upon his alter'd mien
Was writ a smile that had not been
For twice six weary months before,—
Like one of Sir Manfred's in days of yore.
Sure, Hope had there her vigils kept,
And kiss'd him while in death he slept:
Sure, Heaven itself on him had smiled,—
On him, its late repentant child.
Oh! had you mark'd Sir Manfred right,—
His groans and shudderings yesternight,—
Ye would have cried, I guess, with me,
That, whatever that radiant smile might be,
No mortal spell, no mortal care,
Could have won such hope from such despair.
Sir Manfred lying, cold and dead.
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Was writ a smile that had not been
For twice six weary months before,—
Like one of Sir Manfred's in days of yore.
Sure, Hope had there her vigils kept,
And kiss'd him while in death he slept:
Sure, Heaven itself on him had smiled,—
On him, its late repentant child.
Oh! had you mark'd Sir Manfred right,—
His groans and shudderings yesternight,—
Ye would have cried, I guess, with me,
That, whatever that radiant smile might be,
No mortal spell, no mortal care,
Could have won such hope from such despair.
The seneschal fell on his knees,
His thin locks flutter'd to the breeze,—
And he cried, “Oh, faithless heart of mine.
No murderer's brow, Sir Knight, is thine.
Now Heaven be praised,” he cried anew,
“For what I feared, it is not true.”
So let him dream, and dreaming die,
For sure not seldom Mercy weaves
A veil that hides from every eye
The penitent whom she receives,
Lest others, gazing thoughtlessly,
The ghastly face of guilt should see;
And heeding not the burning tears,
That might move their hearts, vanquish'd hers,
Crush with their taunts a bruised heart,
Just healing through her heavenly art.
Why wring that old man's bosom, why?
So let him dream, and dreaming die.
His thin locks flutter'd to the breeze,—
And he cried, “Oh, faithless heart of mine.
No murderer's brow, Sir Knight, is thine.
Now Heaven be praised,” he cried anew,
“For what I feared, it is not true.”
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For sure not seldom Mercy weaves
A veil that hides from every eye
The penitent whom she receives,
Lest others, gazing thoughtlessly,
The ghastly face of guilt should see;
And heeding not the burning tears,
That might move their hearts, vanquish'd hers,
Crush with their taunts a bruised heart,
Just healing through her heavenly art.
Why wring that old man's bosom, why?
So let him dream, and dreaming die.
Through the lady's secret bower,
Through every hall, o'er every tower,
The old man sought the hidden spot
Where she might weep, yet found her not.
He bethought himself; he spoke to none,
But with tottering steps he hurried on
(For the seneschal was worn with care,
And years had silver'd his thin grey hair);
And through lonesome paths, which none frequent,
In silent wretchedness he went,
Until he came to the lonely grave
That lay by that dark and gushing wave;
And he saw, yet scarcely saw, for tears
Dimm'd now his eye, even more than years,
(Oh, the sight will break his heart, I ween,)
He saw the corse of Ceruline!
Through every hall, o'er every tower,
The old man sought the hidden spot
Where she might weep, yet found her not.
He bethought himself; he spoke to none,
But with tottering steps he hurried on
(For the seneschal was worn with care,
And years had silver'd his thin grey hair);
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In silent wretchedness he went,
Until he came to the lonely grave
That lay by that dark and gushing wave;
And he saw, yet scarcely saw, for tears
Dimm'd now his eye, even more than years,
(Oh, the sight will break his heart, I ween,)
He saw the corse of Ceruline!
The kind old man—his head he bow'd,
And long he wept and wept aloud;
And when the sun sank in the sea,
And the moonlight fell on the dark oak-tree,
He buried her there by Hoel's grave,
Watering the sods with his tears the while;
O'er them the dark oak-branches wave,
Their couch sad moaning waters lave,
And falleth there the moon's wan smile.
And long he wept and wept aloud;
And when the sun sank in the sea,
And the moonlight fell on the dark oak-tree,
He buried her there by Hoel's grave,
Watering the sods with his tears the while;
O'er them the dark oak-branches wave,
Their couch sad moaning waters lave,
And falleth there the moon's wan smile.
Enough, enough; turn back thine eye
From a bleeding heart thou canst not heal;
There is a tearless home on high,
There are in heaven who pity feel.
Partings and griefs dwell here below,
And tears must flow when comrades go.
Here we are toss'd from wave to wave,
Pilgrims of hope to the shadowy grave.
Yet, traveller, on; be thou content,
A few short years of banishment,
And there shall dawn o'er this billowy sea
The haven of the far countree.
From a bleeding heart thou canst not heal;
178
There are in heaven who pity feel.
Partings and griefs dwell here below,
And tears must flow when comrades go.
Here we are toss'd from wave to wave,
Pilgrims of hope to the shadowy grave.
Yet, traveller, on; be thou content,
A few short years of banishment,
And there shall dawn o'er this billowy sea
The haven of the far countree.
“But he spoke.
How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill
In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill
My bosom's infinite?”
How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill
In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill
My bosom's infinite?”
—The Spirit's Return. Mrs. Hemans.
“She cross'd him once, she cross'd him twice....
She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold;
He rose beneath her hand.”
She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold;
He rose beneath her hand.”
—Lady of the Lake.
The allusion here is to the beautiful German legend that the bells of “the lost church” are heard by forest wanderers.
“And there in tones, how sweetly grand,
The bell its solemn chimes is keeping;
Unmoved the rope by mortal hand,
A heavenly blast is o'er it sweeping!
The bell its solemn chimes is keeping;
Unmoved the rope by mortal hand,
A heavenly blast is o'er it sweeping!
Translated from the German by T. R. B.
1843.
179
THE CHURCH—A FRAGMENT.
REV. XXI.
A virgin bright, a spotless brideFrom heaven descending,
Angelic armies by her side,
Her pathway tending;
And her robes, more pure than printless snow,
Light beneath her footstep flow.
Wash'd in the streams of Jesus' blood,
Not a spot, not a stain, though view'd in the light
And sunshine of heaven's own crystal flood,
Not a spot, not a stain, but of dazzling white!
Who could deem that this is she
Who walk'd on earth so droopingly?—
Her head bow'd down on her beating heart,
Her eyes in tears that still would start,
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Is in every step of a thorny plain.
Walk'd she on earth so droopingly,—
Who could deem that this is she?
1843.
181
THE IRISH PROTESTANT CONVERTS.
“Brother, they suffer, and they die!—Oh, plead for them, I pray!
They are our brethren, and in need; and more no man can say.”
It pass'd—that brief, sad tale of woe, like wailing of the wind—
It pass'd, but, passing, woke the strings of sorrow's harp behind;
And after, as I mused thereon, came vision-scenes of those
Who, clinging to the cross, had found a shelter in their woes.
Their weary souls had gotten rest, their bodies pined in want—
In nakedness and famine pined—with suffering tired and faint.
I saw the mother's silent tears, the father's anguish'd eye,
I heard the sob of breaking hearts and the children's hunger cry;
Though, 'mid that sea of grief, the Rock that they had lately found
Was still to them a resting-place, 'mid dreary waters round;
And words were whisper'd, “In the world ye shall have pain and grief,
But brief is here your sojourning—your woes, too, shall be brief;
Your home lies in your father-land, and on that tranquil shore
Pain is not known, nor grief, and there they never hunger more.”
They are our brethren, and in need; and more no man can say.”
It pass'd—that brief, sad tale of woe, like wailing of the wind—
It pass'd, but, passing, woke the strings of sorrow's harp behind;
And after, as I mused thereon, came vision-scenes of those
Who, clinging to the cross, had found a shelter in their woes.
Their weary souls had gotten rest, their bodies pined in want—
In nakedness and famine pined—with suffering tired and faint.
I saw the mother's silent tears, the father's anguish'd eye,
I heard the sob of breaking hearts and the children's hunger cry;
182
Was still to them a resting-place, 'mid dreary waters round;
And words were whisper'd, “In the world ye shall have pain and grief,
But brief is here your sojourning—your woes, too, shall be brief;
Your home lies in your father-land, and on that tranquil shore
Pain is not known, nor grief, and there they never hunger more.”
The scene was changed: life's fleeting years had faded as a dream,
And earthly things seem'd light as air that now eternal seem;
The veil of time was rent away, pass'd were the shades of night,
And we before our Saviour's throne stood spirits clad in light.
Methought I saw, amid the throng of ransom'd children there,
Some I had seen in pilgrim-days, though scarcely wist I where;
For suffering then had dimm'd each eye and clouded every brow,
And not a trace of grief remain'd or thought of sorrow now.
But list! the words, from Jesus' lips, of gracious blessing fell,
“Come in, ye blessed! let your songs the choirs of glory swell.
I thirsted, and ye gave Me drink; hunger'd, ye gave Me food;
And visited in tender love My tears and solitude.”
“When saw we Thee a stranger, Lord?—in want when succour'd Thee?”
“In pitying the least of these, ye did it unto Me.”
And earthly things seem'd light as air that now eternal seem;
The veil of time was rent away, pass'd were the shades of night,
And we before our Saviour's throne stood spirits clad in light.
Methought I saw, amid the throng of ransom'd children there,
Some I had seen in pilgrim-days, though scarcely wist I where;
For suffering then had dimm'd each eye and clouded every brow,
And not a trace of grief remain'd or thought of sorrow now.
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“Come in, ye blessed! let your songs the choirs of glory swell.
I thirsted, and ye gave Me drink; hunger'd, ye gave Me food;
And visited in tender love My tears and solitude.”
“When saw we Thee a stranger, Lord?—in want when succour'd Thee?”
“In pitying the least of these, ye did it unto Me.”
That scene of glory pass'd away—it might not linger long—
But still far echoes fill'd my soul as of angelic song,
And strangely, sweetly seem'd to blend with that sad earthly lay,—
“Brother, they suffer, and they die!—Oh, plead for them, I pray!”
But still far echoes fill'd my soul as of angelic song,
And strangely, sweetly seem'd to blend with that sad earthly lay,—
“Brother, they suffer, and they die!—Oh, plead for them, I pray!”
April, 1847.
184
THE PROTESTANT.
Ho! light the beacons, stand to arms,The hour is come at last;
Spread eastward, westward, death alarms,
And sound a trumpet-blast!
Ho! light the beacons—hear ye not
The roll of battle-cars?
Let the flames glare skyward high and hot,
And blind the midnight stars.
From rock to rock, from glen to glen,
The thrilling words be told,
'Mid flashing eyes of patriot men,
Heart-kindlings of the bold.
Go forth, go forth, from south to north,
Our country lies at stake;
Draw ye the brand, for our father-land,
And our wives' and children's sake!
185
As smit by a deadly charm;
The foe, with his wiles and treacherous smiles,
Hath palsied many an arm.
But now they come with the beat of drum,
And banners floating high,
With fancied triumph on their brow,
And slaughter in their eye.
Up! draw the brand for thy father-land—
Draw, Briton, for thy home!
Better the grave than be a slave
In the hated chains of Rome!
They boast our island-rock once more
Her dungeon-house shall be;
Chains, Britons, for your native shore,
And fetters for the free!
Swear by your love of home and hearth,
And freedom's holy sod,
Swear by the dearest things of earth,
Swear by your trust in God,—
186
To breathe a prayer to heaven,
It shall not be while ye can drain
The life-drops God hath given!
While living truths to you are dear
From God's untainted word—
Oh, while their sound is in your ear,
Be now your spirits stirr'd!
Best warriors of the cross I ween,
True patriots only ye;
Oh, for your country and your Queen,
Swear, swear it shall not be!
1847.
187
HYMNS ON THE JUBILEE YEAR OF THE CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY.
I. REV. V. 13.
Lord Jesus, unto whom is given
All power on earth, all power in heaven—
O Lord, to Thine eternal praise
Our song of Jubilee we raise!
All power on earth, all power in heaven—
O Lord, to Thine eternal praise
Our song of Jubilee we raise!
Thy hand has o'er our fallen world
The banner of Thy love unfurl'd;
To us reproach and shame belongs—
To Thee alone these rapturous songs.
The banner of Thy love unfurl'd;
To us reproach and shame belongs—
To Thee alone these rapturous songs.
Thanksgivings, with our prayers, arise,
And reach Thy throne beyond the skies;
To Thee our praise for victories past,
In Thee our trust to win at last.
And reach Thy throne beyond the skies;
To Thee our praise for victories past,
In Thee our trust to win at last.
191
Dark storms are louring far and near,
Men's hearts are failing them for fear;
Our songs shall pierce the stormy sky,
For our redemption draweth nigh.
Men's hearts are failing them for fear;
Our songs shall pierce the stormy sky,
For our redemption draweth nigh.
Then blessing, glory, power, and fame,
Be unto God and to the Lamb,
Till in full presence of our King
Our next great Jubilee we sing!
Be unto God and to the Lamb,
Till in full presence of our King
Our next great Jubilee we sing!
II. PSALM CXV. 1.
Christians, dear brethren, lift your voice!
Rejoice!—in Jesu's name rejoice!
Thee, Lord, we praise, and only Thee,
At this our Gospel Jubilee.
Rejoice!—in Jesu's name rejoice!
Thee, Lord, we praise, and only Thee,
At this our Gospel Jubilee.
Ten thousand thousand ransom'd tongues
Proclaim with us these holy songs,
And swell, from every land and sea,
The choir of our great Jubilee.
Proclaim with us these holy songs,
And swell, from every land and sea,
The choir of our great Jubilee.
192
Dear brethren, now in Jesus one,
From Greenland's snows to India's sun,
To Him whose blood hath made us free
Sing one triumphant Jubilee.
From Greenland's snows to India's sun,
To Him whose blood hath made us free
Sing one triumphant Jubilee.
Thine, Lord, the praise and triumph high—
Ours be the humbled, tearful eye;
For suppliant sinners bend the knee
At this our solemn Jubilee.
Ours be the humbled, tearful eye;
For suppliant sinners bend the knee
At this our solemn Jubilee.
Sing we, to Christ be glory given!
Our song is echoed back from heaven,
And they who labour'd once as we
Hymn with us our high Jubilee.
Our song is echoed back from heaven,
And they who labour'd once as we
Hymn with us our high Jubilee.
Soon shall we join those bands of love
Who throng Thy glorious courts above,
And sing, on golden harps, to Thee
Eternal strains of Jubilee!
Who throng Thy glorious courts above,
And sing, on golden harps, to Thee
Eternal strains of Jubilee!
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