 | England |  |
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CANUTE. A.D. 1000.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin—his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. [OMITTED]
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering, in thy playful spray,
And howling, to his gods, where, haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth, there let him lay.
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin—his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. [OMITTED]
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering, in thy playful spray,
And howling, to his gods, where, haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth, there let him lay.
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
O, Flattery, that ere all other sin
Wast born—that, rob'd in hues divine and bright,
Didst rear thy burnish'd crescent e'en within
God's Paradise, and shower'd thy baleful light,
And o'er the world's first blooms didst scatter blight:—
That by the thrones of kings dost take thy stand,
The counsellor of death, blood, wrong, affright;
Fair, glittering, deadly thing, thy strong command
Sways all—all know the might of thy enchanted wand.
Wast born—that, rob'd in hues divine and bright,
Didst rear thy burnish'd crescent e'en within
God's Paradise, and shower'd thy baleful light,
And o'er the world's first blooms didst scatter blight:—
That by the thrones of kings dost take thy stand,
The counsellor of death, blood, wrong, affright;
Fair, glittering, deadly thing, thy strong command
Sways all—all know the might of thy enchanted wand.
For thou canst wander in the twilight wood,
And gloze the lover's tale, and twine sweet praise,
And call thy mistress beautiful and good,
And to her eyebrows sing seductive lays;
And thus thou winn'st her from pure virtue's ways:
The poet, patriot, hero, fear thy touch!
Well by the serpent of the ancient day
We type thee: truth and honour hate thee much:
God guard each British King from thee and every such.
And gloze the lover's tale, and twine sweet praise,
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And to her eyebrows sing seductive lays;
And thus thou winn'st her from pure virtue's ways:
The poet, patriot, hero, fear thy touch!
Well by the serpent of the ancient day
We type thee: truth and honour hate thee much:
God guard each British King from thee and every such.
King Canute sitteth by the ocean side,
And, glittering in gay robes, his courtiers stand
Around, brave knights, and ladies bright beside.
The murm'rous waves are rippling to the land,
Moaning low ditties to the barren sand;
The evening airs blow fresh, the air is mild,
The setting sun just waves his parting hand;
The great sea slumbers, quiet as a child,
And happy as a maid, by lover's tale beguiled.
And, glittering in gay robes, his courtiers stand
Around, brave knights, and ladies bright beside.
The murm'rous waves are rippling to the land,
Moaning low ditties to the barren sand;
The evening airs blow fresh, the air is mild,
The setting sun just waves his parting hand;
The great sea slumbers, quiet as a child,
And happy as a maid, by lover's tale beguiled.
Dare flattery's ranc'rous poison venture here,
And ope its mouth to the monarchic sea?
“O King, these waves will nod to thee in fear,
“And when thou speakest, own thy sovereignty;
“These shores are thine—these sands belong to thee—
“These cliffs are tenanted by slaves of thine;
“All men do own thy might, and bend the knee—
“All earth doth own thy sway, who art divine,
“And the mad noisy waves of the rebellious brine!”
And ope its mouth to the monarchic sea?
“O King, these waves will nod to thee in fear,
“And when thou speakest, own thy sovereignty;
“These shores are thine—these sands belong to thee—
“These cliffs are tenanted by slaves of thine;
“All men do own thy might, and bend the knee—
“All earth doth own thy sway, who art divine,
“And the mad noisy waves of the rebellious brine!”
O, could'st thou then, have spoke, thou giant thing,
What royal scorn had lit thy madden'd eye;
How had thy thunder lash'd this haughty king—
Thou that hadst brav'd the tempest's tyranny,
And made rude rocks beneath thy footsteps lie—
Thou, that into thy hungry maw hast ta'en
Huge navies, spite their cannons thunderous cry,
Levell'd gigantic cities to a plain,
For the sea-vulture's feast, and lash'd the skies to pain.
What royal scorn had lit thy madden'd eye;
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Thou that hadst brav'd the tempest's tyranny,
And made rude rocks beneath thy footsteps lie—
Thou, that into thy hungry maw hast ta'en
Huge navies, spite their cannons thunderous cry,
Levell'd gigantic cities to a plain,
For the sea-vulture's feast, and lash'd the skies to pain.
Stronger than strongest, giant-born art thou—
Resistless, bold, unconquerable and free;
The gems of unseen worlds are on thy brow—
The wealth of empires circles round thy knee—
The temples of old climes do crouch to thee:
Thy pulses from untrodden caverns boil,
Where ghosts and fleshless skeletons still be;
And to the heart that aids thy constant toil
The God of Heaven gives strength, and binds its fibre's coil.
Resistless, bold, unconquerable and free;
The gems of unseen worlds are on thy brow—
The wealth of empires circles round thy knee—
The temples of old climes do crouch to thee:
Thy pulses from untrodden caverns boil,
Where ghosts and fleshless skeletons still be;
And to the heart that aids thy constant toil
The God of Heaven gives strength, and binds its fibre's coil.
The winter-rains—the mountain-cataract—
The storm's loud thunder—cannot shake thy feet,
Nor tame thy freedom, nor divert thy tract:
And if thou rise, the full-horn'd morn to meet,
'Tis love's free homage, her fresh charms to greet.
The mightiest ship thou heav'st as lilies leaf—
Thou art not warm'd by summer's strongest heat;
Echo can never reach thy caverns deaf—
The whale can make no current, of thy brood the chief.
The storm's loud thunder—cannot shake thy feet,
Nor tame thy freedom, nor divert thy tract:
And if thou rise, the full-horn'd morn to meet,
'Tis love's free homage, her fresh charms to greet.
The mightiest ship thou heav'st as lilies leaf—
Thou art not warm'd by summer's strongest heat;
Echo can never reach thy caverns deaf—
The whale can make no current, of thy brood the chief.
Time, that can shake the strongest castle-wall,
And eat through rocks, and crumble mountains low,
And make vast forests rot away and fall,
Can plant no white upon thy sovereign brow:
The same, when first thy well-springs learnt to flow—
The same, when first thy billows leapt with glee.
To bear the good ship Argo's sacred prow:
The same, when Pharaoh's squadrons bow'd the knee:
The same, when Trafalgar did ring with victory.
And eat through rocks, and crumble mountains low,
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Can plant no white upon thy sovereign brow:
The same, when first thy well-springs learnt to flow—
The same, when first thy billows leapt with glee.
To bear the good ship Argo's sacred prow:
The same, when Pharaoh's squadrons bow'd the knee:
The same, when Trafalgar did ring with victory.
O, joyous hearted thing—O glad of soul!
Whither to peace or war thou turn thy song,
Still, as in triumph, do thy waters roll—
Still do we joy to view thee heaving on—
To see thy pleasant ships, and constant throng
Of snow-white birds—to hear thy breezes sound—
To wind thy open rocks and caves among;
Or with lov'd maid, where brightest shells are found,
Wander, or view the sun, with glory circled round.
Whither to peace or war thou turn thy song,
Still, as in triumph, do thy waters roll—
Still do we joy to view thee heaving on—
To see thy pleasant ships, and constant throng
Of snow-white birds—to hear thy breezes sound—
To wind thy open rocks and caves among;
Or with lov'd maid, where brightest shells are found,
Wander, or view the sun, with glory circled round.
What, though thou hast no leafy summer bowers,
Where happy birds their fadeless raptures tell;
What, though the green of mountains, with their flowers—
The sights and voices that with nature dwell—
Above, around, o'er thee no raptures swell!
Still hast thou charms, by day and night the same,
A song that never tires—a crystal well
That never dries—a sound, a heart of fame,
And a most wond'rous spell that robes the soul with flame.
Where happy birds their fadeless raptures tell;
What, though the green of mountains, with their flowers—
The sights and voices that with nature dwell—
Above, around, o'er thee no raptures swell!
Still hast thou charms, by day and night the same,
A song that never tires—a crystal well
That never dries—a sound, a heart of fame,
And a most wond'rous spell that robes the soul with flame.
Canute is dead, but thou art living still;
The robe of state—the crown of gold is gone,
But thy green livery never fades, nor will!
Thy locks are blanch'd not; still thy footsteps run,
Strong, bold, majestic, stedfast, heeding none:
Thousands of kings and courtiers find their graves;
Thousands of mighty warriors death has won;
But thou hast still a thunder in thy waves—
A voice of constant power among thy secret caves.
The robe of state—the crown of gold is gone,
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Thy locks are blanch'd not; still thy footsteps run,
Strong, bold, majestic, stedfast, heeding none:
Thousands of kings and courtiers find their graves;
Thousands of mighty warriors death has won;
But thou hast still a thunder in thy waves—
A voice of constant power among thy secret caves.
Thousands of monarchs with their subjects lie;
But thou art still coeval with old time—
With something near of immortality—
A strange, wild sound—a countenance sublime.
Aye, and for ever shall thy clear notes chime,
Till, with one foot on land, and one on thee,
The archangel's trump shall sound o'er every clime;
And even as smoke shall all thy waters flee,
Unto the distant realms, where broods eternity.
But thou art still coeval with old time—
With something near of immortality—
A strange, wild sound—a countenance sublime.
Aye, and for ever shall thy clear notes chime,
Till, with one foot on land, and one on thee,
The archangel's trump shall sound o'er every clime;
And even as smoke shall all thy waters flee,
Unto the distant realms, where broods eternity.
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