 | Fra Cipolla, and other poems |  |
105
PROTEUS.
“You have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms like a malcontent.”
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
From clime to clime hath made the world obey,
That cunning ruler, in whose teeming shrine
Each human passion found a power divine,
A heavenly patron, from the immortal sphere
To shield and guard its lowlier follower here;
Though passed their rites, and dwindled to a tale
The names that awed each old Ionian vale;
Yet still shall one, of all mankind pursued,
Their changeful passions as of old delude;
Aye still shall Proteus his old shapes assume,
And cheat that world, which Reason's rays illume:
106
Now start Napoleon to their humbled eyes,
Then change again, and as they dash away
That brazen idol with the feet of clay,
Another still they find, and still shall he,
Whate'er his mask, their cunning mocker be.
So like the changes of their various will,
Some thought that Reason was but Proteus still.
As erst the god, so sings the Mantuan sire,
Now seemed a faggot—now a flame of fire;
So now he filled that intellectual blaze
That flashes glory on these later days;
And bids us, nobly daring, to despise
Whate'er our fathers counted to be wise.
They err; from far, mysterious Reason shines,
With meaning fraught, which many a seer divines,
And cries Eureka—till a cloud between
With envious shade reverses all the scene;
'Tis he, 'tis Proteus, from her presence dread
To vex the dreams of gazing nations sped;
And every neck with adoration bowed,
Still hails that changing semblance of a cloud.
107
Though fair and false, inconstant still as he;
No more he drives across the mountain's brow
His ancient herds, far others serve him now;
But still strange portents on his coming wait,
When Reason bids him blind her slaves elate:
Thus when (pale arbitress of wits and tides,)
O'er heaven the moon in fullest radiance rides,
Then elves and fays, her airy tribes arrayed
In shapes fantastic, flutter o'er the glade,
And cheat the wandering clown, and 'lated village maid.
Thus she commands, and well obeys the sprite
The hests imperious of her mystic might:
From Gaul's green vineyards, from the Belgic plains,
Now calls the many to cast off their chains:
Now helps some prophet, whom they think the true,
By force or fraud to forge them all anew.
Once for religion blood obscured the sun,
But now the wise are liberal, or for none;
108
As Proteus changes rush the world to wars.
What, though the peasant, doomed afar to roam,
Weep his burnt field, and desecrated home;
The ruined merchant mourn his useless store,
Locked up by strife, with famine at the door;
The silent palace, with its nobles fled,
The herbless earth, the black and smouldering shed,
The extinguished hearth, by rapine lonely made,
Despair, suspicion of itself afraid,
That sits a cloud in childhood's thoughtful eye,
And watches ever, lest a foot be nigh,
And every form of death, and every woe
That fate can bring, or frenzy can bestow;
Oh what are these to philosophic mind,
To rule the world, and reconstruct designed?
Light in that lofty reasoner's scale are they,
“To-morrow's sun will smile them all away,”
But with that morrow, still another storm,
To some of ruin tells, and some, reform.
Hard, then, their fate whom evil fame pursues,
As tyrants branded by the partial Muse,
That as her scribes indite the reader sways;
Hard Borgia's lot in Machiavelli's praise.
109
That he had won, and lull his foes to sleep,
From which, perchance, they woke not; death might wait,
Disguised as welcome, smiling at his gate,
And gathering hosts for him might trample o'er
The prostrate city—drench the earth with gore;
Yet let the eagle bear the palm away
From baser vultures, and the prating jay;
To strife if empire's Roman game allure,
Vain-glorious sophist, are thy hands more pure?
The world would gaze on Reason face to face,
Then burns like Semele in Jove's embrace:
And still as years emerge from their abyss
Shows many a Paris 'gainst Persepolis:
Patriot, or tyrant come, for judgment stand;
This loves persuasion, loftier this command,
The sword's their last appeal, and ever near at hand.
And well may one in Tuscan vales reclined,
To thoughts like these direct a willing mind.
Here from each land where late my steps have trod,
Which slept as yet, nor dreamt it felt the rod,
New tidings, still the same, while rumour brings,
And shakes o'er thrones her venom-dropping wings;
While the gay city of the Seine displays
Her last new trophies of the “Immortal days;”
And guarded well with citizens' bright blades,
Her fresh reared banner greets the barricades;
While some remodel, some support the state,
And this would act, and that deliberate;
And by the stern dark column of the Man ,
His scars of Wagram shows the veteran,
And gazes upward, with a kindling eye,
As if Napoleon's spirit from the sky,
A moment hovered o'er the pedestal
Whence once his image, not his memory, fell:
While booms the cannon through thy squares, Bruxelles,
And Diebitsch leaves unreached the Dardanelles,
To front by Warsaw's serried wall afar,
Storms that may veil his fame's ascending star;
Light of the world, whose love to thee is more
Than all Olympus ever knew before,
(Thy kindred gods, who left their power to thee,
Oblivion quaffing of their deity
In Æthiop's cavern, deep beneath the sea;)
Light of the world and leader! still appear
As there thy strife, its dinted footsteps here,
As there the war, the agony, the grief,
Here the same traces, but with time's relief.
To thoughts like these direct a willing mind.
Here from each land where late my steps have trod,
Which slept as yet, nor dreamt it felt the rod,
New tidings, still the same, while rumour brings,
And shakes o'er thrones her venom-dropping wings;
110
Her last new trophies of the “Immortal days;”
And guarded well with citizens' bright blades,
Her fresh reared banner greets the barricades;
While some remodel, some support the state,
And this would act, and that deliberate;
And by the stern dark column of the Man ,
His scars of Wagram shows the veteran,
And gazes upward, with a kindling eye,
As if Napoleon's spirit from the sky,
A moment hovered o'er the pedestal
Whence once his image, not his memory, fell:
While booms the cannon through thy squares, Bruxelles,
And Diebitsch leaves unreached the Dardanelles,
To front by Warsaw's serried wall afar,
Storms that may veil his fame's ascending star;
Light of the world, whose love to thee is more
Than all Olympus ever knew before,
(Thy kindred gods, who left their power to thee,
Oblivion quaffing of their deity
In Æthiop's cavern, deep beneath the sea;)
Light of the world and leader! still appear
As there thy strife, its dinted footsteps here,
111
Here the same traces, but with time's relief.
But ye who shrink repugnant from the strife,
The restless winds that plough the seas of life,
And seek but peace, wherein to shape your way
To future mansions of eternal day,
Lo, Vallombrosa rears her grey retreat,
Her solemn walls for contemplation meet;
Her smooth-mown lawns, where studious feet may roam,
And pore at ease o'er many an antique tome;
Above, around, in long fantastic line,
Sweeps with his woods the circling Apennine.
And glad the sights the musing friar sees,
The far smoke rising mid the chestnut trees,
The sparkling ether o'er the distant plain,
Blue as the bosom of the summer main,
The milk-white ox, slow winding up the steep,
The laughing peasant, and his vintage heap;
Till lengthening shadows of the westward sun,
Spread their veil round him as the day glides on.
Then may his steps, untired with the scene,
Seek the trim garden's cypress-covered screen,
And trace at leisure on the virgin page,
The virtuous precept, or example sage:
Or fates of kingdoms, which of yore befell.
'Twas thus grew many a famous chronicle,
With silver clasps, and gilded letters quaint;
The pictured lives of martyr, or of saint,
Or gests of valorous knight, his arms who bore
To smite the Turk, on Jordan's sacred shore.
Perchance with terror riding on his spear,
Flew as the eagle's his unchecked career;
Perchance left singly, scorning yet to yield,
He sunk to rest beneath his broken shield:
Then turned his comrades, maddening at the thought,
And dear the trophy from the field they brought.
High in some old cathedral's gothic aisle
In storied pomp his monument they pile;
Around his tomb the priest may masses sing,
Where banners wave, and odorous censers swing,
And the stained oriel sheds its colours bright,
In uncouth tracery telling of the fight:
But ages roll, and soon before their blast
Must all we see be mingled with the past;
No more that roof its pinnacles shall raise,
A few grey stones, a tale of other days,
That tells of splendour, ere the foemen came,
And smote its shrines, and gave its towers to flame,
And bade destruction in one ruin whelm
The shepherd's rude-carved crook, the warrior's helm;
A few green walls shall rise its site along;
Where now the tomb that should his fame prolong?
Yet shall he live, and still each high emprize
Shall fire the wanderer 'neath those eastern skies;
Though gone their sculptured record, and defaced
The marble pillars of that blackened waste;
Still as the monk's recital opes to view,
Dressed in old phrase, his memory wakes anew;
Each wreath of victory won on field or flood,
By lonely mountain, or enchanted wood,
The oppressor slain, the damsel's fetters rent,
And pagan caitiffs down to Hades sent.
Nor scorn the themes which Ariosto sung,
And ancient Chaucer Woodstock's oaks among,
And hence reflected to our later day,
In Scott's wild page, and Dryden's classic lay.
Yet may he love through evening's silent hours
To woo the Muses from Athenian bowers,
Or problems deep beneath the stars to trace,
Mysterious lore of Afric's swarthy race.
By sacred signs sent down from sire to son,
Where Thebes' wide gates saw ancient Nilus run
Past mirror'd temples, through that mighty clime,
The nurse of realms long yielded since to time;
The awful fount, whence young Achaia drew
Her lore, and fledged her eagle ere it flew;
And shook, while hovered o'er her callow wings
The ancestral grandeur of a thousand kings.
Long time sequestered in the cloistered cell,
War's maddening demons bade such science dwell;
Slow crept the pilot yet, nor dared to brave
The hidden terrors of the pathless wave;
Enough for him his timid course to shape,
From creek to creek, and jutting cape to cape,
And wait with sails in sheltering haven furled,
When the breeze freshened or the billows curled.
But earth has shaken off her widow weeds;
And led by peace, a bolder age succeeds.
Lo, El Dorado opes her countless store—
Can fancy image, avarice pant for more?
Hark to the beach, how varied nations throng,
Waked by the clang of fame's resounding gong;
Wild with desire, their hearts responsive leap;
Hence, cavaliers, your home is o'er the deep!
Each thirsty lance that longs for battle's din,
Each squire that burns his knightly spurs to win,
Each moon-struck bard, of golden realms, that feigns,
Here is the clime where Artemisia reigns.
Each sage with schemes of true perfection warm,
Here last was seen Utopia's fleeting form:
Haste, for the gates of darkness are unbarred,
And show beyond a dusky vision, starred
With wealth and peace, too soon to fade before
Assembled legions on her plundered shore.
Swift as the winds they spurn the Atlantic main,
And fast before night's gloomy shadows wane,
And bright in morning radiance to the old
Spreads the new world her dower of thrones and gold.
No more shall victor shun the billow's roar,
And halt his legions on the curtailed shore,
To shed, or gather, as his bosom swells,
Tears with young Ammon, with the Roman shells.
That clime which his and Bacchus' rule confest,
Must bend before her sister of the west;
And waves and whirlwinds, now a vanished fear,
But serve to waft him to that glorious sphere.
The restless winds that plough the seas of life,
And seek but peace, wherein to shape your way
To future mansions of eternal day,
Lo, Vallombrosa rears her grey retreat,
Her solemn walls for contemplation meet;
Her smooth-mown lawns, where studious feet may roam,
And pore at ease o'er many an antique tome;
Above, around, in long fantastic line,
Sweeps with his woods the circling Apennine.
And glad the sights the musing friar sees,
The far smoke rising mid the chestnut trees,
The sparkling ether o'er the distant plain,
Blue as the bosom of the summer main,
The milk-white ox, slow winding up the steep,
The laughing peasant, and his vintage heap;
Till lengthening shadows of the westward sun,
Spread their veil round him as the day glides on.
Then may his steps, untired with the scene,
Seek the trim garden's cypress-covered screen,
And trace at leisure on the virgin page,
The virtuous precept, or example sage:
112
'Twas thus grew many a famous chronicle,
With silver clasps, and gilded letters quaint;
The pictured lives of martyr, or of saint,
Or gests of valorous knight, his arms who bore
To smite the Turk, on Jordan's sacred shore.
Perchance with terror riding on his spear,
Flew as the eagle's his unchecked career;
Perchance left singly, scorning yet to yield,
He sunk to rest beneath his broken shield:
Then turned his comrades, maddening at the thought,
And dear the trophy from the field they brought.
High in some old cathedral's gothic aisle
In storied pomp his monument they pile;
Around his tomb the priest may masses sing,
Where banners wave, and odorous censers swing,
And the stained oriel sheds its colours bright,
In uncouth tracery telling of the fight:
But ages roll, and soon before their blast
Must all we see be mingled with the past;
No more that roof its pinnacles shall raise,
A few grey stones, a tale of other days,
That tells of splendour, ere the foemen came,
And smote its shrines, and gave its towers to flame,
113
The shepherd's rude-carved crook, the warrior's helm;
A few green walls shall rise its site along;
Where now the tomb that should his fame prolong?
Yet shall he live, and still each high emprize
Shall fire the wanderer 'neath those eastern skies;
Though gone their sculptured record, and defaced
The marble pillars of that blackened waste;
Still as the monk's recital opes to view,
Dressed in old phrase, his memory wakes anew;
Each wreath of victory won on field or flood,
By lonely mountain, or enchanted wood,
The oppressor slain, the damsel's fetters rent,
And pagan caitiffs down to Hades sent.
Nor scorn the themes which Ariosto sung,
And ancient Chaucer Woodstock's oaks among,
And hence reflected to our later day,
In Scott's wild page, and Dryden's classic lay.
Yet may he love through evening's silent hours
To woo the Muses from Athenian bowers,
Or problems deep beneath the stars to trace,
Mysterious lore of Afric's swarthy race.
By sacred signs sent down from sire to son,
Where Thebes' wide gates saw ancient Nilus run
114
The nurse of realms long yielded since to time;
The awful fount, whence young Achaia drew
Her lore, and fledged her eagle ere it flew;
And shook, while hovered o'er her callow wings
The ancestral grandeur of a thousand kings.
Long time sequestered in the cloistered cell,
War's maddening demons bade such science dwell;
Slow crept the pilot yet, nor dared to brave
The hidden terrors of the pathless wave;
Enough for him his timid course to shape,
From creek to creek, and jutting cape to cape,
And wait with sails in sheltering haven furled,
When the breeze freshened or the billows curled.
But earth has shaken off her widow weeds;
And led by peace, a bolder age succeeds.
Lo, El Dorado opes her countless store—
Can fancy image, avarice pant for more?
Hark to the beach, how varied nations throng,
Waked by the clang of fame's resounding gong;
Wild with desire, their hearts responsive leap;
Hence, cavaliers, your home is o'er the deep!
Each thirsty lance that longs for battle's din,
Each squire that burns his knightly spurs to win,
115
Here is the clime where Artemisia reigns.
Each sage with schemes of true perfection warm,
Here last was seen Utopia's fleeting form:
Haste, for the gates of darkness are unbarred,
And show beyond a dusky vision, starred
With wealth and peace, too soon to fade before
Assembled legions on her plundered shore.
Swift as the winds they spurn the Atlantic main,
And fast before night's gloomy shadows wane,
And bright in morning radiance to the old
Spreads the new world her dower of thrones and gold.
No more shall victor shun the billow's roar,
And halt his legions on the curtailed shore,
To shed, or gather, as his bosom swells,
Tears with young Ammon, with the Roman shells.
That clime which his and Bacchus' rule confest,
Must bend before her sister of the west;
And waves and whirlwinds, now a vanished fear,
But serve to waft him to that glorious sphere.
Ye cloisters worn by dedicated feet,
116
To penance vowed, to solitude, to God,
Here may the world's tired children rest at length,
And mourn no longer for their wasted strength;
Youth's fading dreams, ambition's weary game,
And 'vantage lost, and visionary fame!
But say, on every brother doth descend
That sainted peace, that owns but heaven its end?
Hope for the future in the realms above,
Good will on earth, and unaspiring love!
Far other thoughts, to yonder lonely boy,
Each sunrise brings, night's wakeful hours employ;
The last, and meanest of the convent train,
By birth a peasant, none in heart or brain,
His soaring fancy grasps the days to come,
Thy chair, St. Peter, and the might of Rome!
The savage swine his ruder brothers tend
In the deep woods, when autumn's dews descend;
Of daily hire they think, or winter wild,
Nor heed the visions of the book-learned child.
Oh, still unquiet spirits love to range
The world with thee, thou subtle lord of change,
Alike they strive for princedom, and for power,
Pent in a cell, or throned in palace tower;
117
When the priest plotted, and the warrior fought;
What need of sword and slaughter, when the bell,
And torch, and curse, and book, will serve as well,
And easy souls persuade they're sent to hell?[OMITTED]
| Fra Cipolla, and other poems | |