The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
|
|
| GREEK SONGS. |
|
|
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
225
GREEK SONGS.
I.—THE STORM OF DELPHI.
Far through the Delphian shades
An Eastern trumpet rung!
And the startled eagle rush'd on high,
With a sounding flight through the fiery sky;
And banners, o'er the shadowy glades,
To the sweeping winds were flung.
An Eastern trumpet rung!
And the startled eagle rush'd on high,
With a sounding flight through the fiery sky;
And banners, o'er the shadowy glades,
To the sweeping winds were flung.
Banners, with deep-red gold
All waving as a flame,
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed,
And a peal of Asia's war-notes told
That in arms the Persian came.
All waving as a flame,
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed,
And a peal of Asia's war-notes told
That in arms the Persian came.
He came with starry gems
On his quiver and his crest;
With starry gems, at whose heart the day
Of the cloudless orient burning lay,
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems,
As onward his thousands press'd.
On his quiver and his crest;
With starry gems, at whose heart the day
Of the cloudless orient burning lay,
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems,
As onward his thousands press'd.
226
But a gloom fell o'er their way,
And a heavy moan went by!
A moan, yet not like the wind's low swell,
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell,
But a mortal murmur of dismay,
Or a warrior's dying sigh!
And a heavy moan went by!
A moan, yet not like the wind's low swell,
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell,
But a mortal murmur of dismay,
Or a warrior's dying sigh!
A gloom fell o'er their way!
'Twas not the shadow cast
By the dark pine boughs, as they cross'd the blue
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue;—
The air was fill'd with a mightier sway—
But on the spearmen pass'd!
'Twas not the shadow cast
By the dark pine boughs, as they cross'd the blue
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue;—
The air was fill'd with a mightier sway—
But on the spearmen pass'd!
And hollow to their tread,
Came the echoes of the ground,
And banners droop'd, as with dews o'erborne,
And the wailing blast of the battle horn
Had an alter'd cadence, dull and dead,
Of strange foreboding sound.
Came the echoes of the ground,
And banners droop'd, as with dews o'erborne,
And the wailing blast of the battle horn
Had an alter'd cadence, dull and dead,
Of strange foreboding sound.
But they blew a louder strain,
When the steep defiles were pass'd!
And afar the crown'd Parnassus rose,
To shine through heaven with his radiant snows,
And in golden light the Delphian fane
Before them stood at last!
When the steep defiles were pass'd!
And afar the crown'd Parnassus rose,
To shine through heaven with his radiant snows,
And in golden light the Delphian fane
Before them stood at last!
In golden light it stood,
'Midst the laurels gleaming lone,
For the Sun-god yet, with a lovely smile,
O'er its graceful pillars look'd awhile,
Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood
Grew deep round its mountain-throne.
'Midst the laurels gleaming lone,
For the Sun-god yet, with a lovely smile,
O'er its graceful pillars look'd awhile,
227
Grew deep round its mountain-throne.
And the Persians gave a shout!
But the marble-walls replied,
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore,
And a savage trumpet's note peal'd out,
Till their hearts for terror died!
But the marble-walls replied,
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore,
And a savage trumpet's note peal'd out,
Till their hearts for terror died!
On the armour of the god,
Then a viewless hand was laid;
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din,
And corslet brought from the shrine within,
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode,
And before its front array'd.
Then a viewless hand was laid;
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din,
And corslet brought from the shrine within,
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode,
And before its front array'd.
And a sudden silence fell
Through the dim and loaded air!
On the wild-bird's wing, and the myrtle spray,
And the very founts, in their silvery way,
With a weight of sleep came down the spell,
Till man grew breathless there.
Through the dim and loaded air!
On the wild-bird's wing, and the myrtle spray,
And the very founts, in their silvery way,
With a weight of sleep came down the spell,
Till man grew breathless there.
But the pause was broken soon!
'Twas not by song or lyre;
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers,
And the hearths were lone in the city's towers,
But there burst a sound through the misty noon—
That battle-noon of fire!
'Twas not by song or lyre;
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers,
And the hearths were lone in the city's towers,
But there burst a sound through the misty noon—
That battle-noon of fire!
228
It burst from earth and heaven!
It roll'd from crag and cloud!
For a moment of the mountain-blast,
With a thousand stormy voices pass'd,
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven,
When the thunder peal'd aloud.
It roll'd from crag and cloud!
For a moment of the mountain-blast,
With a thousand stormy voices pass'd,
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven,
When the thunder peal'd aloud.
And the lightnings in their play
Flash'd forth, like javelins thrown;
Like sun-darts wing'd from the silver bow,
They smote the spear and the turban'd brow,
And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray,
And the banners were struck down!
Flash'd forth, like javelins thrown;
Like sun-darts wing'd from the silver bow,
They smote the spear and the turban'd brow,
And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray,
And the banners were struck down!
And the massy oak-boughs crash'd
To the fire-bolts from on high,
And the forest lent its billowy roar,
While the glorious tempest onward bore,
And lit the streams, as they foam'd and dash'd,
With the fierce rain sweeping by.
To the fire-bolts from on high,
And the forest lent its billowy roar,
While the glorious tempest onward bore,
And lit the streams, as they foam'd and dash'd,
With the fierce rain sweeping by.
Then rush'd the Delphian men
On the pale and scatter'd host;
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave,
They rush'd from the dim Corycian cave,
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen
Roll'd on, with the spears they toss'd.
On the pale and scatter'd host;
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave,
They rush'd from the dim Corycian cave,
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen
Roll'd on, with the spears they toss'd.
There were cries of wild dismay,
There were shouts of warrior-glee,
There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth,
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth;
But the mount of song, when they died away,
Still rose, with its temple, free!
There were shouts of warrior-glee,
There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth,
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth;
229
Still rose, with its temple, free!
And the Pæan swell'd erelong,
Io Pæan! from the fane;
Io Pæan! for the war-array,
On the crown'd Parnassus riven that day!
—Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song!
With thy bounding streams again.
Io Pæan! from the fane;
Io Pæan! for the war-array,
On the crown'd Parnassus riven that day!
—Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song!
With thy bounding streams again.
II.—THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.
Before the fiery sun,
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye,
In the free air, and on the war-field won,
Our fathers crown'd the Bowl of Liberty.
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye,
In the free air, and on the war-field won,
Our fathers crown'd the Bowl of Liberty.
Amidst the tombs they stood,
The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies,
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood
Had steep'd the soil in hues of sacrifice.
The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies,
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood
Had steep'd the soil in hues of sacrifice.
They call'd the glorious dead,
In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh,
And pour'd rich odours o'er their battle-bed,
And bade them to their rite of Liberty.
In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh,
And pour'd rich odours o'er their battle-bed,
And bade them to their rite of Liberty.
230
They call'd them from the shades,
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell
How softer light th' immortal clime pervades,
And music floats o'er meads of Asphodel.
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell
How softer light th' immortal clime pervades,
And music floats o'er meads of Asphodel.
Then fast the bright-red wine
Flow'd to their names who taught the world to die
And made the land's green turf a living shrine,
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.
Flow'd to their names who taught the world to die
And made the land's green turf a living shrine,
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.
So the rejoicing earth
Took from her vines again the blood she gave,
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth
From the free soil thus hallow'd to the brave.
Took from her vines again the blood she gave,
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth
From the free soil thus hallow'd to the brave.
We have the battle-fields,
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky,
We have the founts the purple vintage yields;
—When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty?
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky,
We have the founts the purple vintage yields;
—When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty?
For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration of the battle of Platæa, see Potter's Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 389.
III.—THE VOICE OF SCIO.
A voice from Scio's isle—
A voice of song, a voice of old
Swept far as cloud or billow roll'd,
And earth was hush'd the while—
A voice of song, a voice of old
Swept far as cloud or billow roll'd,
And earth was hush'd the while—
231
The souls of nations woke!
Where lies the land whose hills among,
That voice of Victory hath not rung,
As if a trumpet spoke?
Where lies the land whose hills among,
That voice of Victory hath not rung,
As if a trumpet spoke?
To sky, and sea, and shore,
Of those whose blood, on Ilion's plain,
Swept from the rivers to the main,
A glorious tale it bore.
Of those whose blood, on Ilion's plain,
Swept from the rivers to the main,
A glorious tale it bore.
Still, by our sun-bright deep,
With all the fame that fiery lay
Threw round them, in its rushing way,
The sons of battle sleep.
With all the fame that fiery lay
Threw round them, in its rushing way,
The sons of battle sleep.
And kings their turf have crown'd!
And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave
Brought garlands there: so rest the brave,
Who thus their bard have found!
And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave
Brought garlands there: so rest the brave,
Who thus their bard have found!
A voice from Scio's isle,
A voice as deep hath risen again
As far shall peal its thrilling strain,
Where'er our sun may smile!
A voice as deep hath risen again
As far shall peal its thrilling strain,
Where'er our sun may smile!
Let not its tones expire!
Such power to waken earth and heaven,
And might and vengeance, ne'er was given
To mortal song or lyre!
Such power to waken earth and heaven,
And might and vengeance, ne'er was given
To mortal song or lyre!
Know ye not whence it comes?
—From ruin'd hearths, from burning fanes,
From kindred blood on yon red plains,
From desolated homes!
—From ruin'd hearths, from burning fanes,
232
From desolated homes!
'Tis with us through the night!
'Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky—
Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high,
O'er the mid-waves of fight!
'Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky—
Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high,
O'er the mid-waves of fight!
IV.—THE SPARTANS' MARCH.
“The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle,”
says Thucydides, “because they wished not to excite the rage of their
warriors. Their charging-step was made to the ‘Dorian mood of
flutes and soft recorders.’ The valour of a Spartan was too highly
tempered to require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was
like a steed too proud for the spur.”
Campbell
on the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks.
'Twas morn upon the Grecian hills,
Where peasants dress'd the vines;
Sunlight was on Cithæron's rills,
Arcadia's rocks and pines.
Where peasants dress'd the vines;
Sunlight was on Cithæron's rills,
Arcadia's rocks and pines.
And brightly, through his reeds and flowers,
Eurotas wander'd by,
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers
Of solemn harmony.
Eurotas wander'd by,
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers
Of solemn harmony.
Was it the hunters' choral strain
To the woodland-goddess pour'd?
Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane
Strike the full sounding chord?
To the woodland-goddess pour'd?
Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane
Strike the full sounding chord?
233
But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day!
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day!
And the mountain-echoes of the land
Swell'd through the deep-blue sky;
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.
Swell'd through the deep-blue sky;
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.
They march'd not with the trumpet's blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out,
And the laurel groves, as on they pass'd,
Rung with no battle shout!
Nor bade the horn peal out,
And the laurel groves, as on they pass'd,
Rung with no battle shout!
They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire
Their souls with an impulse high;
But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre
For the sons of liberty!
Their souls with an impulse high;
But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre
For the sons of liberty!
And still sweet flutes, their path around
Sent forth Æolian breath;
They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death!
Sent forth Æolian breath;
They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death!
So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,
Save bearing back the Spartan shield,
Or on it proudly borne!
Thence never to return,
Save bearing back the Spartan shield,
Or on it proudly borne!
234
V.—THE URN AND SWORD.
They sought for treasures in the tomb,
Where gentler hands were wont to spread
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom,
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.
Where gentler hands were wont to spread
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom,
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.
They scatter'd far the greensward heap,
Where once those hands the bright wine pour'd;
—What found they in the home of sleep?—
A mouldering urn, a shiver'd sword!
Where once those hands the bright wine pour'd;
—What found they in the home of sleep?—
A mouldering urn, a shiver'd sword!
An urn, which held the dust of one
Who died when hearths and shrines were free;
A sword, whose work was proudly done
Between our mountains and the sea.
Who died when hearths and shrines were free;
A sword, whose work was proudly done
Between our mountains and the sea.
And these are treasures!—undismay'd,
Still for the suffering land we trust,
Wherein the past its fame hath laid,
With freedom's sword, and valour's dust.
Still for the suffering land we trust,
Wherein the past its fame hath laid,
With freedom's sword, and valour's dust.
VI.—THE MYRTLE BOUGH.
Still green, along our sunny shore,
The flowering myrtle waves,
As when its fragrant boughs of yore
Were offer'd on the graves—
The graves, wherein our mighty men
Had rest, unviolated then.
The flowering myrtle waves,
As when its fragrant boughs of yore
Were offer'd on the graves—
235
Had rest, unviolated then.
Still green it waves! as when the hearth
Was sacred through the land;
And fearless was the banquet's mirth,
And free the minstrel's hand;
And guests, with shining myrtle crown'd,
Sent the wreath'd lyre and wine-cup round.
Was sacred through the land;
And fearless was the banquet's mirth,
And free the minstrel's hand;
And guests, with shining myrtle crown'd,
Sent the wreath'd lyre and wine-cup round.
Still green! as when on holy ground
The tyrant's blood was pour'd:
Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer's sword!
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,
We still have sword and myrtle bougn!
The tyrant's blood was pour'd:
Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer's sword!
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,
We still have sword and myrtle bougn!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |