 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
107
I. PART I
Non è questo 'l terren, ch' i' toccai pria?
Non è questo 'l mio nido,
Ove nudrito fui sì dolcemente?
Non è questa la patria in ch' io mi fido,
Madre benigna e pia,
Che copre l'uno e l' altro mio parente?
Petrarca.
Non è questo 'l mio nido,
Ove nudrito fui sì dolcemente?
Non è questa la patria in ch' io mi fido,
Madre benigna e pia,
Che copre l'uno e l' altro mio parente?
Petrarca.
108
ANALYSIS OF THE FIRST PART
An autumnal night on the banks of the Thames. Eulogium of the Thames. Characters of several rivers of Great Britain. Acknowledged superiority of the Thames. Address to the Genius of the Thames. View of some of the principal rivers of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. Pre-eminence of the Thames. General character of the river. The port of London. The naval dominion of Britain, and extent of her commerce and navigation. Tradition that an immense forest formerly occupied the site of the metropolis. Episode of a Druid, supposed to have taken refuge in that forest, after the expulsion of the order from Mona.
109
The moonlight rests, with solemn smile,
On sylvan shore and willowy isle:
While Thames, beneath the imaged beam,
Rolls on his deep and silent stream.
The wasting wind of autumn sighs:
The oak's discolored foliage flies:
The grove, in deeper shadow cast,
Waves darkly in the eddying blast.
All hail, ye breezes, loud and drear,
That peal the death-song of the year!
Your rustling pinions waft around
A voice, that breathes no mortal sound,
And in mysterious accents sings
The flight of time, the change of things.
The seasons pass, in swift career:
Storms close, and zephyrs wake, the year:
The streams roll on, nor e'er return
To fill again their parent urn;
But bounteous nature, kindly-wise,
Their everlasting flow supplies.
Like planets round the central sun,
The rapid wheels of being run,
By laws, from earliest time pursued,
Still changed, still wasted, still renewed.
Reflected in the present scene,
Return the forms that once have been:
The present's varying tints display
The colors of the future day.
On sylvan shore and willowy isle:
While Thames, beneath the imaged beam,
Rolls on his deep and silent stream.
The wasting wind of autumn sighs:
The oak's discolored foliage flies:
The grove, in deeper shadow cast,
Waves darkly in the eddying blast.
All hail, ye breezes, loud and drear,
That peal the death-song of the year!
Your rustling pinions waft around
A voice, that breathes no mortal sound,
And in mysterious accents sings
The flight of time, the change of things.
The seasons pass, in swift career:
Storms close, and zephyrs wake, the year:
The streams roll on, nor e'er return
To fill again their parent urn;
But bounteous nature, kindly-wise,
Their everlasting flow supplies.
Like planets round the central sun,
The rapid wheels of being run,
110
Still changed, still wasted, still renewed.
Reflected in the present scene,
Return the forms that once have been:
The present's varying tints display
The colors of the future day.
Ye bards, that, in these secret shades,
These tufted woods, and sloping glades,
Awoke, to charm the sylvan maids,
Your soul-entrancing minstrelsy!
Say, do your spirits yet delight
To rove, beneath the starry night,
Along this water's margin bright,
Or mid the woodland scenery;
And strike, to notes of tender fire,
With viewless hands, the shadowy lyre,
Till all the wandering winds respire
A wildly-awful symphony?
These tufted woods, and sloping glades,
Awoke, to charm the sylvan maids,
Your soul-entrancing minstrelsy!
Say, do your spirits yet delight
To rove, beneath the starry night,
Along this water's margin bright,
Or mid the woodland scenery;
And strike, to notes of tender fire,
With viewless hands, the shadowy lyre,
Till all the wandering winds respire
A wildly-awful symphony?
Hark! from beneath the aged spray,
Where hangs my humbler lyre on high,
Soft music fills the woodlands grey,
And notes aërial warble by!
What flying touch, with elfin spell,
Bids its responsive numbers swell?
Whence is the deep Æolian strain,
That on the wind its changes flings?
Returns some ancient bard again,
To wake to life the slumbering strings?
Or breathed the spirit of the scene
The lightly-trembling chords between,
Diffusing his benignant power
On twilight's consecrated hour?
Where hangs my humbler lyre on high,
Soft music fills the woodlands grey,
And notes aërial warble by!
What flying touch, with elfin spell,
Bids its responsive numbers swell?
Whence is the deep Æolian strain,
That on the wind its changes flings?
Returns some ancient bard again,
To wake to life the slumbering strings?
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The lightly-trembling chords between,
Diffusing his benignant power
On twilight's consecrated hour?
Even now, methinks, in solemn guise,
By yonder willowy islet grey,
I see thee, sedge-crowned Genius! rise,
And point the glories of thy way.
Tall reeds around thy temples play
Thy hair the liquid crystal gems:
To thee I pour the votive lay,
Oh Genius of the silver Thames!
By yonder willowy islet grey,
I see thee, sedge-crowned Genius! rise,
And point the glories of thy way.
Tall reeds around thy temples play
Thy hair the liquid crystal gems:
Huic deus ipse loci fluvio Tiberinus amœno
Populeas inter senior se adtollere frondis
Visus: eum tenuis glauco velabat amictu
Carbasus, et crinis umbrosa tegebat arundo.
Virgilius.
Populeas inter senior se adtollere frondis
Visus: eum tenuis glauco velabat amictu
Carbasus, et crinis umbrosa tegebat arundo.
Virgilius.
The tutelary spirits, that formerly animated the scenes of nature, still continue to adorn the visions of poetry; though they are now felt only as the creatures of imagination, and no longer possess that influence of real existence, which must have imparted many enviable sensations to the mind of the ancient polytheist.
Of all these fabulous beings, the Genii and Nymphs of rivers and fountains received the largest portion of human adoration. In them, an enthusiastic fancy readily discerned the agency of powerful and benevolent spirits, diffusing wealth and fertility over the countries they adorned.—“Rivers are worshipped,” says Maximus Tyrius (Dissertatio VIII. Ει θεοις αγαλματα ιδρυτεον,) “on account of their utility, as the Nile by the Egyptians; or of their beauty, as the Peneus by the Thessalians; or of their magnitude, as the Danube by the Scythians; or of mythological traditions, as the Achelous by the Ætolians; or of particular laws, as the Eurotas by the Spartans; or of religious institutions, as the Ilissus by the Athenians.”—
These local divinities are the soul of classical landscape; and their altars, by the side of every fountain, and in the shade of every grove, are its most interesting and characteristic feature. From innumerable passages that might be cited on this subject, it will be sufficient to call to mind that beautiful description of Homer:
Αστεος εγγυς εσαν, και επι κρηνην αφικοντο
Τυκτην, καλλιροον, οθεν υδρευοντο πολιται,
Την ποιησ' Ιθακος, και Νεριτος, ηδε Πολυκτωρ:
Αμφι δ'αρ' αιγειρων: υδατοτρεφεων ην αλσος
Παντοσε κυκλοτερες: κατα δε ψυκρον ρεεν υδωρ
Ψ(ψοθεν εκ πετρης: βωμος δ'εφυπερθε τετυκτο
Νυμφαων, οθι παντες επιρεζεσκον οδιται.
Τυκτην, καλλιροον, οθεν υδρευοντο πολιται,
Την ποιησ' Ιθακος, και Νεριτος, ηδε Πολυκτωρ:
Αμφι δ'αρ' αιγειρων: υδατοτρεφεων ην αλσος
Παντοσε κυκλοτερες: κατα δε ψυκρον ρεεν υδωρ
Ψ(ψοθεν εκ πετρης: βωμος δ'εφυπερθε τετυκτο
Νυμφαων, οθι παντες επιρεζεσκον οδιται.
To thee I pour the votive lay,
Oh Genius of the silver Thames!
The shepherd-youth, on Yarrow braes,
Of Yarrow stream has sung the praise,
To love and beauty dear:
And long shall Yarrow roll in fame,
Charm with the magic of a name,
And claim the tender tear.
Who has not wept, in pastoral lay
To hear the maiden's song of woe,
Who mourned her lover snatched away,
And plunged the sounding surge below?
The maid, who never ceased to weep,
And tell the winds her tale of sorrow,
Till on his breast she sunk to sleep,
Beneath the lonely waves of Yarrow.
Of Yarrow stream has sung the praise,
To love and beauty dear:
And long shall Yarrow roll in fame,
Charm with the magic of a name,
And claim the tender tear.
Who has not wept, in pastoral lay
To hear the maiden's song of woe,
Who mourned her lover snatched away,
And plunged the sounding surge below?
The maid, who never ceased to weep,
And tell the winds her tale of sorrow,
Till on his breast she sunk to sleep,
Beneath the lonely waves of Yarrow.
The minstrel oft, at evening-fall,
Has leaned on Roxburgh's ruined wall,
Where, on the wreck of grandeur past,
The wild wood braves the sweeping blast:
And while, beneath the embowering shade,
Swelled, loud and deep, his notes of flame,
Has called the spirits of the glade,
To hear the voice of Teviot's fame.
Has leaned on Roxburgh's ruined wall,
112
The wild wood braves the sweeping blast:
And while, beneath the embowering shade,
Swelled, loud and deep, his notes of flame,
Has called the spirits of the glade,
To hear the voice of Teviot's fame.
While artless love, and spotless truth,
Delight the waking dreams of youth;
While nature's beauties, softly-wild,
Are dear to nature's wandering child;
The lyre shall ring, where sparkling Tweed,
By red-stone cliff, and broom-flowered mead,
And ivied walls in fair decay,
Resounds along his rock-strown way.
There oft the bard, at midnight still,
When rove his eerie steps alone,
Shall start to hear, from haunted hill,
The bugle-blast at distance blown:
And oft his raptured eye shall trace,
Amid the visionary gloom,
The foaming courser's eager pace,
The mail-clad warrior's crimson plume,
The beacons, blazing broad and far,
The lawless marchmen ranging free,
And all the pride of feudal war,
And pomp of border chivalry.
Delight the waking dreams of youth;
While nature's beauties, softly-wild,
Are dear to nature's wandering child;
The lyre shall ring, where sparkling Tweed,
By red-stone cliff, and broom-flowered mead,
And ivied walls in fair decay,
Resounds along his rock-strown way.
There oft the bard, at midnight still,
When rove his eerie steps alone,
Shall start to hear, from haunted hill,
The bugle-blast at distance blown:
And oft his raptured eye shall trace,
Amid the visionary gloom,
The foaming courser's eager pace,
The mail-clad warrior's crimson plume,
The beacons, blazing broad and far,
The lawless marchmen ranging free,
And all the pride of feudal war,
And pomp of border chivalry.
And Avon too has claimed the lay,
Whose listening wave forgot to stray,
By Shakespear's infant reed restrained:
And Severn, whose suspended swell
Felt the dread weight of Merlin's spell,
When the lone spirits of the dell
Of Arthur's fall complained.
And sweetly winds romantic Dee,
And Wye's fair banks all lovely smile:
But all, oh Thames! submit to thee,
The monarch-stream of Albion's isle.
Whose listening wave forgot to stray,
By Shakespear's infant reed restrained:
113
Felt the dread weight of Merlin's spell,
When the lone spirits of the dell
Of Arthur's fall complained.
And sweetly winds romantic Dee,
And Wye's fair banks all lovely smile:
But all, oh Thames! submit to thee,
The monarch-stream of Albion's isle.
From some ethereal throne on high,
Where clouds in nectar-dews dissolve,
The muse shall mark, with eagle-eye,
The world's diminished orb revolve.
At once her ardent glance shall roll,
From clime to clime, from pole to pole,
O'er waters, curled by zephyr's wing,
O'er shoreless seas, by whirlwinds tost;
O'er vallies of perennial spring,
And wastes of everlasting frost;
O'er deserts, where the Siroc raves,
And heaves the sand in fiery waves;
O'er caverns of mysterious gloom;
O'er lakes, where peaceful islets bloom,
Like emerald spots, serenely-bright,
Amid a sapphire field of light;
O'er mountain-summits, thunder-riven,
That rear eternal snows to heaven;
O'er rocks, in wild confusion hurled,
And woods, coeval with the world.
Where clouds in nectar-dews dissolve,
The muse shall mark, with eagle-eye,
The world's diminished orb revolve.
At once her ardent glance shall roll,
From clime to clime, from pole to pole,
O'er waters, curled by zephyr's wing,
O'er shoreless seas, by whirlwinds tost;
O'er vallies of perennial spring,
And wastes of everlasting frost;
O'er deserts, where the Siroc raves,
And heaves the sand in fiery waves;
O'er caverns of mysterious gloom;
O'er lakes, where peaceful islets bloom,
Like emerald spots, serenely-bright,
Amid a sapphire field of light;
O'er mountain-summits, thunder-riven,
That rear eternal snows to heaven;
O'er rocks, in wild confusion hurled,
And woods, coeval with the world.
Her eye shall thence the course explore
Of every river wandering wide,
From tardy Lena's frozen shore
To vast La Plata's sea-like tide.
Where Oby's barrier-billows freeze,
And Dwina's waves in snow-chains rest:
Where the rough blast from Arctic seas
Congeals on Volga's ice-cold breast:
Where Rhine impels his confluent springs
Tumultuous down the Rhætian steep:
Where Danube's world of waters brings
Its tribute to the Euxine deep:
Where Seine, beneath Lutetian towers,
Leads humbly his polluted stream,
Recalling still the blood-red hours
Of frantic freedom's transient dream:
Where crowns sweet Loire his fertile soil:
Where Rhone's impetuous eddies boil:
Where Garonne's pastoral waves advance,
Responsive to the song and dance,
When the full vintage calls from toil
The youths and maids of southern France:
Where horned Po's once-raging flood
Now moves with slackened force along,
By hermit-isle and magic wood,
The theme of old chivalric song:
Where yellow Tiber's turbid tide
In mystic murmurings seems to breathe
Of ancient Rome's imperial pride,
That passed away, as blasts divide
November's vapory wreath:
Where proud Tajo's golden river
Rolls through fruitful realms afar:
Where romantic Guadalquiver
Wakes the thought of Moorish war:
Where Penëus, smoothly-flowing,
Or Mæander's winding shore,
Charm the pensive wanderer, glowing
With the love of Grecian lore:
Where Alphëus, wildly-falling,
Dashes far the sparkling spray;
In the eternal sound recalling
Lost Arcadia's heaven-taught lay;
Following dark, in strong commotion,
Through the night of central caves,
Deep beneath the unmingling ocean,
Arethusa's flying waves:
Where Tigris runs, in rapid maze:
Where swift Euphrates brightly strays;
To whose lone wave the night-breeze sings
A song of half-forgotten days
And old Assyrian kings:
Where, Gangà's fertile course beside,
The Hindu roves, alone to mourn,
And gaze on heaven's resplendent pride,
And watch for Veeshnu's tenth return;
When fraud shall cease, and tyrant power
Torment no more, to ruin hurled,
And peace and love their blessings shower,
O'er all the renovated world:
Where Nile's mysterious sources sleep:
Where Niger sinks, in sands unknown:
Where Gambia hears, at midnight deep,
Afflicted ghosts for vengeance groan:
Where Mississippi's giant-stream
Through savage realms impetuous pours:
Where proud Potomac's cataracts gleam,
Or vast Saint Lawrence darkly roars:
Where Amazon her pomp unfolds
Beneath the equinoctial ray,
And through her drear savannahs holds
Her long immeasurable way:
Where'er in youthful strength they flow,
Or seek old ocean's wide embrace,
Her eagle-glance the muse shall throw,
And all their pride and power retrace:
Yet, wheresoe'er, from copious urn,
Their bursting torrents flash and shine,
Her eye shall not a stream discern
To vie, oh sacred Thames! with thine.
Of every river wandering wide,
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To vast La Plata's sea-like tide.
Where Oby's barrier-billows freeze,
And Dwina's waves in snow-chains rest:
Where the rough blast from Arctic seas
Congeals on Volga's ice-cold breast:
Where Rhine impels his confluent springs
Tumultuous down the Rhætian steep:
Where Danube's world of waters brings
Its tribute to the Euxine deep:
Where Seine, beneath Lutetian towers,
Leads humbly his polluted stream,
Recalling still the blood-red hours
Of frantic freedom's transient dream:
Where crowns sweet Loire his fertile soil:
Where Rhone's impetuous eddies boil:
Where Garonne's pastoral waves advance,
Responsive to the song and dance,
When the full vintage calls from toil
The youths and maids of southern France:
Where horned Po's once-raging flood
Now moves with slackened force along,
By hermit-isle and magic wood,
The theme of old chivalric song:
Where yellow Tiber's turbid tide
In mystic murmurings seems to breathe
Of ancient Rome's imperial pride,
That passed away, as blasts divide
November's vapory wreath:
Where proud Tajo's golden river
Rolls through fruitful realms afar:
115
Wakes the thought of Moorish war:
Where Penëus, smoothly-flowing,
The propriety of this epithet may be questioned. “The vale of Tempe,” says Dr. Gillies, “is adorned by the hand of nature with every object that can gratify the senses or delight the fancy. The gently-flowing Peneus intersects the middle of the plain. Its waters are increased by perennial cascades from the green mountains, and thus rendered of sufficient depth for vessels of considerable burthen. The rocks are every where planted with vines and olives; and the banks of the river, and even the river itself, are overshadowed with lofty forest-trees, which defend those who sail upon it from the sun's meridian ardor.”—He adds in a note: “I know not why Ovid says, Penëus ab imo effusus Pindo spumosis volvitur undis. Ælian, from whom the description in the text is taken, says, that the Peneus flows Δικην ελαιου, smooth as oil.”
Livy's description, which seems to have escaped Dr. G., is singularly contradictory.—Sunt enim Tempe, saltus, etiam si non bello fiat, infestus, transitu difficilis: nam præter angustias per quinque millia, qua exiguum jumento onusto iter est, rupes utrimque ita abscissæ sunt, ut despici vix sine vertigine quadam simul oculorum animique possit. Terret et sonitus et altitudo per mediam vallem fluentis Penei amnis.
The sonitus coincides with the description of Ovid, the altitudo with that of Ælian. It is difficult to reconcile the terms with each other: since altissima quæque flumina minimo sono labuntur.—We may suppose, that the Peneus is a torrent in the upper part of the vale, and gains a smoother course as it proceeds.
Or Mæander's winding shore,
Charm the pensive wanderer, glowing
With the love of Grecian lore:
Where Alphëus, wildly-falling,
Dashes far the sparkling spray;
In the eternal sound recalling
Lost Arcadia's heaven-taught lay;
Following dark, in strong commotion,
Through the night of central caves,
Deep beneath the unmingling ocean,
Arethusa's flying waves:
Where Tigris runs, in rapid maze:
Where swift Euphrates brightly strays;
To whose lone wave the night-breeze sings
A song of half-forgotten days
And old Assyrian kings:
Where, Gangà's fertile course beside,
The Hindu roves, alone to mourn,
And gaze on heaven's resplendent pride,
And watch for Veeshnu's tenth return;
When fraud shall cease, and tyrant power
Torment no more, to ruin hurled,
And peace and love their blessings shower,
O'er all the renovated world:
Where Nile's mysterious sources sleep:
Where Niger sinks, in sands unknown:
The Niger has been generally supposed to terminate in a lake in the desert, where its waters are evaporated by the heat of the sun. Mr Jackson, in his account of the empire of Marocco, adduces authorities to shew, that the Nile and the Niger are actually the same river; a supposition which Major Rennel, in his geographical illustrations of Mr Park's Travels in Africa, had previously demonstrated to be altogether inadmissible. We may here, perhaps, apply the words of an Italian poet:
Quel Sorridano è re dell' Esperia,
Ove Balcana fiume si distende:
Il Nilo crede alcun, che questo sia,
Ma chi lo crede, poco sen' intende.
Ove Balcana fiume si distende:
Il Nilo crede alcun, che questo sia,
Ma chi lo crede, poco sen' intende.
Berni: Orlando Innamorato.
Where Gambia hears, at midnight deep,
Afflicted ghosts for vengeance groan:
116
Through savage realms impetuous pours:
Where proud Potomac's cataracts gleam,
Or vast Saint Lawrence darkly roars:
Where Amazon her pomp unfolds
Beneath the equinoctial ray,
And through her drear savannahs holds
Her long immeasurable way:
Where'er in youthful strength they flow,
Or seek old ocean's wide embrace,
Her eagle-glance the muse shall throw,
And all their pride and power retrace:
Yet, wheresoe'er, from copious urn,
Their bursting torrents flash and shine,
Her eye shall not a stream discern
To vie, oh sacred Thames! with thine.
Along thy course no pine-clad steep,
No alpine summits, proudly tower:
No woods, impenetrably deep,
O'er thy pure mirror darkly lower:
The orange-grove, the myrtle-bower,
The vine, in rich luxuriance spread;
The charms Italian meadows shower;
The sweets Arabian vallies shed;
The roaring cataract, wild and white;
The lotos-flower, of azure light;
The fields, where ceaseless summer smiles;
The bloom, that decks the Ægëan isles;
The hills, that touch the empyreal plain,
Olympian Jove's sublime domain;
To other streams all these resign:
Still none, oh Thames! shall vie with thine.
No alpine summits, proudly tower:
No woods, impenetrably deep,
O'er thy pure mirror darkly lower:
The orange-grove, the myrtle-bower,
The vine, in rich luxuriance spread;
The charms Italian meadows shower;
The sweets Arabian vallies shed;
The roaring cataract, wild and white;
The lotos-flower, of azure light;
The fields, where ceaseless summer smiles;
The bloom, that decks the Ægëan isles;
The hills, that touch the empyreal plain,
Olympian Jove's sublime domain;
117
Still none, oh Thames! shall vie with thine.
For what avails the myrtle-bower,
Where beauty rests at noon-tide hour;
The orange-grove, whose blooms exhale
Rich perfume on the ambient gale;
And all the charms in bright array,
Which happier climes than thine display?
Ah! what avails, that heaven has rolled
A silver stream o'er sands of gold,
And decked the plain, and reared the grove,
Fit dwelling for primeval love;
If man defile the beauteous scene,
And stain with blood the smiling green;
If man's worst passions there arise,
To counteract the favoring skies;
If rapine there, and murder reign,
And human tigers prowl for gain,
And tyrants foul, and trembling slaves,
Pollute their shores, and curse their waves?
Where beauty rests at noon-tide hour;
The orange-grove, whose blooms exhale
Rich perfume on the ambient gale;
And all the charms in bright array,
Which happier climes than thine display?
Ah! what avails, that heaven has rolled
A silver stream o'er sands of gold,
And decked the plain, and reared the grove,
Fit dwelling for primeval love;
If man defile the beauteous scene,
And stain with blood the smiling green;
If man's worst passions there arise,
To counteract the favoring skies;
If rapine there, and murder reign,
And human tigers prowl for gain,
And tyrants foul, and trembling slaves,
Pollute their shores, and curse their waves?
Far other charms than these possess,
Oh Thames! thy verdant margin bless:
Where peace, with freedom hand-in-hand,
Walks forth along the sparkling strand,
And cheerful toil, and glowing health,
Proclaim a patriot nation's wealth.
The blood-stained scourge no tyrants wield:
No groaning slaves invert the field:
But willing labor's careful train
Crowns all thy banks with waving grain,
With beauty decks thy sylvan shades,
With livelier green invests thy glades,
And grace, and bloom, and plenty, pours
On thy sweet meads and willowy shores.
Oh Thames! thy verdant margin bless:
Where peace, with freedom hand-in-hand,
Walks forth along the sparkling strand,
And cheerful toil, and glowing health,
Proclaim a patriot nation's wealth.
The blood-stained scourge no tyrants wield:
No groaning slaves invert the field:
But willing labor's careful train
118
With beauty decks thy sylvan shades,
With livelier green invests thy glades,
And grace, and bloom, and plenty, pours
On thy sweet meads and willowy shores.
The plain, where herds unnumbered rove,
The laurelled path, the beechen grove,
The lonely oak's expansive pride,
The spire, through distant trees descried,
The cot, with woodbine wreathed around,
The field, with waving corn embrowned,
The fall, that turns the frequent mill,
The seat, that crowns the woodland hill,
The sculptured arch, the regal dome,
The fisher's willow-mantled home,
The classic temple, flower-entwined,
In quick succession charm the mind,
Till, where thy widening current glides
To mingle with the turbid tides,
Thy spacious breast displays unfurled
The ensigns of the assembled world.
The laurelled path, the beechen grove,
The lonely oak's expansive pride,
The spire, through distant trees descried,
The cot, with woodbine wreathed around,
The field, with waving corn embrowned,
The fall, that turns the frequent mill,
The seat, that crowns the woodland hill,
The sculptured arch, the regal dome,
The fisher's willow-mantled home,
The classic temple, flower-entwined,
In quick succession charm the mind,
Till, where thy widening current glides
To mingle with the turbid tides,
Thy spacious breast displays unfurled
The ensigns of the assembled world.
Throned in Augusta's ample port,
Imperial commerce holds her court,
And Britain's power sublimes:
To her the breath of every breeze
Conveys the wealth of subject seas,
And tributary climes.
Adventurous courage guides the helm
From every port of every realm:
Through gales that rage, and waves that whelm,
Unnumbered vessels ride:
Till all their various ensigns fly,
Beneath Britannia's milder sky,
Where roves, oh Thames! the patriot's eye
O'er thy refulgent tide.
The treasures of the earth are thine:
For thee Golcondian diamonds shine:
For thee, amid the dreary mine,
The patient sufferers toil:
Thy sailors roam, a dauntless host,
From northern seas to India's coast,
And bear the richest stores they boast
To bless their native soil.
Imperial commerce holds her court,
And Britain's power sublimes:
To her the breath of every breeze
Conveys the wealth of subject seas,
And tributary climes.
Adventurous courage guides the helm
From every port of every realm:
119
Unnumbered vessels ride:
Till all their various ensigns fly,
Beneath Britannia's milder sky,
Where roves, oh Thames! the patriot's eye
O'er thy refulgent tide.
The treasures of the earth are thine:
For thee Golcondian diamonds shine:
For thee, amid the dreary mine,
The patient sufferers toil:
Thy sailors roam, a dauntless host,
From northern seas to India's coast,
And bear the richest stores they boast
To bless their native soil.
O'er states and empires, near and far,
While rolls the fiery surge of war,
Thy country's wealth and power increase,
Thy vales and cities smile in peace:
And still, before thy gentle gales,
The laden bark of commerce sails;
And down thy flood, in youthful pride,
Those mighty vessels sternly glide,
Destined, amid the tempest's rattle,
To hurl the thunder-bolt of battle,
To guard, in danger's hottest hour,
Britannia's old prescriptive power,
And through winds, floods, and fire, maintain
Her native empire of the main.
While rolls the fiery surge of war,
Thy country's wealth and power increase,
Thy vales and cities smile in peace:
And still, before thy gentle gales,
The laden bark of commerce sails;
And down thy flood, in youthful pride,
Those mighty vessels sternly glide,
Destined, amid the tempest's rattle,
To hurl the thunder-bolt of battle,
To guard, in danger's hottest hour,
Britannia's old prescriptive power,
And through winds, floods, and fire, maintain
Her native empire of the main.
The mystic nymph, whose ken sublime
Reads the dark tales of eldest time,
Scarce, through the mist of years, descries
Augusta's infant glory rise.
A race, from all the world estranged,
Wild as the uncultured plains they ranged,
Here raised of yore their dwellings rude,
Beside the forest-solitude.
For then, as old traditions tell,
Where science now and splendor dwell,
Along the stream's wild margin spread
A lofty forest's mazes dread.
None dared, with step profane, impress
Those labyrinths of loneliness,
Where dismal trees, of giant-size,
Entwined their tortuous boughs on high,
Nor hailed the cheerful morn's uprise,
Nor glowed beneath the evening sky.
The dire religion of the scene
The rustic's trembling mind alarmed:
For oft, the parting boughs between,
'Twas said, a dreadful form was seen,
Of horrid eye, and threatening mien,
With lightning-brand and thunder armed.
Not there, in sunshine-chequered shade,
The sylvan nymphs and genii strayed;
But horror reigned, and darkness drear,
And silence, and mysterious fear:
And superstitious rites were done,
Those haunted glens and dells among,
That never felt the genial sun,
Nor heard the wild bird's vernal song:
To gods malign the incense-pyre
Was kindled with unearthly fire,
And human blood had oft bedewed
Their ghastly altars, dark and rude.
There feebly fell, at noon-tide bright,
A dim, discolored, dismal light,
Such as a lamp's pale glimmerings shed
Amid the mansions of the dead.
The Druid's self, who dared to lead
The rites barbaric gods decreed,
Beneath the gloom half-trembling stood;
As if he almost feared to mark,
In all his awful terrors dark,
The mighty monarch of the wood.
Reads the dark tales of eldest time,
120
Augusta's infant glory rise.
A race, from all the world estranged,
Wild as the uncultured plains they ranged,
Here raised of yore their dwellings rude,
Beside the forest-solitude.
For then, as old traditions tell,
Where science now and splendor dwell,
Along the stream's wild margin spread
A lofty forest's mazes dread.
None dared, with step profane, impress
Those labyrinths of loneliness,
Where dismal trees, of giant-size,
Entwined their tortuous boughs on high,
Nor hailed the cheerful morn's uprise,
Nor glowed beneath the evening sky.
The dire religion of the scene
The rustic's trembling mind alarmed:
For oft, the parting boughs between,
'Twas said, a dreadful form was seen,
Of horrid eye, and threatening mien,
With lightning-brand and thunder armed.
Not there, in sunshine-chequered shade,
The sylvan nymphs and genii strayed;
But horror reigned, and darkness drear,
And silence, and mysterious fear:
And superstitious rites were done,
Those haunted glens and dells among,
That never felt the genial sun,
Nor heard the wild bird's vernal song:
121
Was kindled with unearthly fire,
And human blood had oft bedewed
Their ghastly altars, dark and rude.
There feebly fell, at noon-tide bright,
A dim, discolored, dismal light,
Such as a lamp's pale glimmerings shed
Amid the mansions of the dead.
The Druid's self, who dared to lead
The rites barbaric gods decreed,
Beneath the gloom half-trembling stood;
As if he almost feared to mark,
In all his awful terrors dark,
The mighty monarch of the wood.
The Roman came: the blast of war
Re-echoed wide o'er hill and dell:
Beneath the storm, that blazed afar,
The noblest chiefs of Albion fell.
The Druids shunned its rage awhile
In sylvan Mona's haunted isle,
Till on their groves of ancient oak
The hostile fires of ruin broke,
And circles rude of shapeless stone,
With lichens grey and moss o'ergrown,
Alone remained to point the scene,
Where erst Andraste's rites had been.
When to the dust their pride was driven;
When waste and bare their haunts appeared;
No more the oracles of heaven,
By gods beloved, by men revered,
No refuge left but death or flight,
They rushed, unbidden, to the tomb,
Or veiled their heads in caves of night,
And forests of congenial gloom.
Re-echoed wide o'er hill and dell:
Beneath the storm, that blazed afar,
The noblest chiefs of Albion fell.
The Druids shunned its rage awhile
In sylvan Mona's haunted isle,
Till on their groves of ancient oak
The hostile fires of ruin broke,
And circles rude of shapeless stone,
With lichens grey and moss o'ergrown,
Alone remained to point the scene,
Where erst Andraste's rites had been.
When to the dust their pride was driven;
When waste and bare their haunts appeared;
No more the oracles of heaven,
By gods beloved, by men revered,
122
They rushed, unbidden, to the tomb,
Or veiled their heads in caves of night,
And forests of congenial gloom.
There stalked, in murky darkness wide,
Revenge, despair, and outraged pride:
Funereal songs, and ghastly cries,
Rose to their dire divinities.
Oft, in their feverish dreams, again
Their groves and temples graced the plain;
And stern Andraste's fiery form
Called from its caves the slumbering storm,
And whelmed, with thunder-rolling hand,
The flying Roman's impious band.
Revenge, despair, and outraged pride:
Funereal songs, and ghastly cries,
Rose to their dire divinities.
Oft, in their feverish dreams, again
Their groves and temples graced the plain;
And stern Andraste's fiery form
Called from its caves the slumbering storm,
“Amongst our Britons,” says Mr Baxter, as quoted by Mr Davies, Mythology and Rites of the British Druids, p. 617, “even of the present day, Andras is a popular name of the goddess Malen, or the lady, whom the vulgar call Y Vall, that is, Fauna Fatua, and Mam y Drwg, the Devil's dam, or Y Wrach, the old hag. . . . Some regarded her as a flying spectre. . . . That name corresponded not only with Hecate, Bellona, and Enyo, but also with Bona Dea, the great mother of the gods, and the terrestrial Venus. . . . In the fables of the populace, she is styled Y Vad Ddu Hyll, that is, Bona Furva Effera, and on the other hand, Y Vad Velen, that is, Helena, or Bona Flava. . . . Agreeably to an ancient rite, the old Britons cruelly offered human sacrifices to this Andrasta: whence, as Dion relates, our amazon, Vondicca (Boadicea) invoked her with imprecations, previous to her engagement with the Romans. The memory of this goddess, or fury, remains to the present day; for men in a passion growl at each other, Mae rhyw Andras arnochwi: Some Andrasta possesses you.”
And whelmed, with thunder-rolling hand,
The flying Roman's impious band.
It chanced, amid that forest's shade,
That frowned where now Augusta towers,
A Roman youth bewildered strayed,
While swiftly fell the evening hours.
Around his glance inquiring ran:
No trace was there of living man:
Forms indistinct before him flew:
The darkening horror darker grew:
Till night, in death-like stillness felt,
Around those dreary mazes dwelt.
Sudden, a blaze of lurid blue,
That flashed the matted foliage through,
Illumed, as with Tartarean day,
The knotted trunks and branches grey.
Sensations, wild and undefined,
Rushed on the Roman warrior's mind:
But deeper wonder filled his soul,
When on the dead still air around,
Like symphony from magic ground,
Mysterious music stole:
Such strains as flow, when spirits keep,
Around the tombs where wizards sleep,
Beneath the cypress foliage deep,
The rites of dark solemnity;
And hands unearthly wildly sweep
The chords of elfin melody.
The strains were sad: their changeful swell,
And plaintive cadence, seemed to tell
Of blighted joys, of hopes o'erthrown,
Of mental peace for ever flown,
Of dearest friends, by death laid low,
And tears, and unavailing woe.
Yet something of a sterner thrill
With those sad strains consorted ill,
As if revenge had dared intrude
On hopeless sorrow's darkest mood.
That frowned where now Augusta towers,
A Roman youth bewildered strayed,
While swiftly fell the evening hours.
Around his glance inquiring ran:
No trace was there of living man:
Forms indistinct before him flew:
The darkening horror darker grew:
Till night, in death-like stillness felt,
Around those dreary mazes dwelt.
Sudden, a blaze of lurid blue,
That flashed the matted foliage through,
Illumed, as with Tartarean day,
The knotted trunks and branches grey.
Sensations, wild and undefined,
123
But deeper wonder filled his soul,
When on the dead still air around,
Like symphony from magic ground,
Mysterious music stole:
Such strains as flow, when spirits keep,
Around the tombs where wizards sleep,
Beneath the cypress foliage deep,
The rites of dark solemnity;
And hands unearthly wildly sweep
The chords of elfin melody.
The strains were sad: their changeful swell,
And plaintive cadence, seemed to tell
Of blighted joys, of hopes o'erthrown,
Of mental peace for ever flown,
Of dearest friends, by death laid low,
And tears, and unavailing woe.
Yet something of a sterner thrill
With those sad strains consorted ill,
As if revenge had dared intrude
On hopeless sorrow's darkest mood.
Guided by those sulphureous rays,
The Roman pierced the forest maze;
Till, through the opening woodland reign,
Appeared an oak-encircled plain,
Where giant boughs expanded high
Their storm-repelling canopy,
And, central in the sacred round,
Andraste's moss-grown altar frowned.
The mystic flame of lurid blue
There shed a dubious, mournful light,
And half-revealed to human view
The secret majesty of night.
An ancient man, in dark attire,
Stood by the solitary fire:
The varying flame his form displayed,
Half-tinged with light, half-veiled in shade.
His grey hair, gemmed with midnight dew,
Streamed down his robes of sable hue:
His cheeks were sunk: his beard was white:
But his large eyes were fiery-bright,
And seemed through flitting shades to range,
With wild expression, stern and strange.
There, where no wind was heard to sigh,
Nor wandering streamlet murmured by,
While every voice of nature slept,
The harp's symphonious strings he swept:
Such thrilling tones might scarcely be
The touch of mortal minstrelsy;
Now rolling loud, and deep, and dread,
As if the sound would wake the dead,
Now soft, as if, with tender close,
To bid the parted soul repose.
The Roman pierced the forest maze;
Till, through the opening woodland reign,
Appeared an oak-encircled plain,
Where giant boughs expanded high
Their storm-repelling canopy,
And, central in the sacred round,
Andraste's moss-grown altar frowned.
124
There shed a dubious, mournful light,
And half-revealed to human view
The secret majesty of night.
An ancient man, in dark attire,
Stood by the solitary fire:
The varying flame his form displayed,
Half-tinged with light, half-veiled in shade.
His grey hair, gemmed with midnight dew,
Streamed down his robes of sable hue:
His cheeks were sunk: his beard was white:
But his large eyes were fiery-bright,
And seemed through flitting shades to range,
With wild expression, stern and strange.
There, where no wind was heard to sigh,
Nor wandering streamlet murmured by,
While every voice of nature slept,
The harp's symphonious strings he swept:
Such thrilling tones might scarcely be
The touch of mortal minstrelsy;
Now rolling loud, and deep, and dread,
As if the sound would wake the dead,
Now soft, as if, with tender close,
To bid the parted soul repose.
The Roman youth with wonder gazed
On those dark eyes to heaven upraised,
Where struggling passions wildly shone,
With fearful lustre, not their own.
Awhile irresolute he stood:
At length he left the sheltering wood,
And moved towards the central flame:
But, ere his lips the speech could frame,
—“And who art thou?”—the Druid cried,
While flashed his burning eye-balls wide,—
“Whose steps unhallowed boldly press
This sacred grove's profound recess?
Ha! by my injured country's doom!
I know the hated arms of Rome.
Through this dark forest's pathless way
Andraste's self thy steps has led,
To perish on her altars grey,
A grateful offering to the dead.
Oh goddess stern! one victim more
To thee his vital blood shall pour,
And shades of heroes, hovering nigh,
Shall joy to see a Roman die!
With that dread plant, that none may name,
I feed the insatiate fire of fate:
Roman! with this tremendous flame
Thy head to hell I consecrate!”—
And, snatching swift a blazing brand,
He dashed it in the Roman's face,
And seized him with a giant's hand,
And dragged him to the altar's base.
Though worn by time and adverse fate,
Yet strength unnaturally great
He gathered then from deadly hate
And superstitious zeal:
A dire religion's stern behest
Alone his phrensied soul possessed;
Already o'er his victim's breast
Hung the descending steel.
On those dark eyes to heaven upraised,
Where struggling passions wildly shone,
With fearful lustre, not their own.
Awhile irresolute he stood:
At length he left the sheltering wood,
125
But, ere his lips the speech could frame,
—“And who art thou?”—the Druid cried,
While flashed his burning eye-balls wide,—
“Whose steps unhallowed boldly press
This sacred grove's profound recess?
Ha! by my injured country's doom!
I know the hated arms of Rome.
Through this dark forest's pathless way
Andraste's self thy steps has led,
To perish on her altars grey,
A grateful offering to the dead.
Oh goddess stern! one victim more
To thee his vital blood shall pour,
And shades of heroes, hovering nigh,
Shall joy to see a Roman die!
With that dread plant, that none may name,
I feed the insatiate fire of fate:
Roman! with this tremendous flame
Thy head to hell I consecrate!”—
And, snatching swift a blazing brand,
He dashed it in the Roman's face,
And seized him with a giant's hand,
And dragged him to the altar's base.
Though worn by time and adverse fate,
Yet strength unnaturally great
He gathered then from deadly hate
And superstitious zeal:
A dire religion's stern behest
Alone his phrensied soul possessed;
126
Hung the descending steel.
The scene, the form, the act, combined,
A moment on the Roman's mind
An enervating influence poured:
But to himself again restored,
Upspringing light, he grasped his foe,
And checked the meditated blow,
And on the Druid's breast repelled
The steel his own wild fury held.
The vital stream flowed fast away,
And stained Andraste's altars grey.
A moment on the Roman's mind
An enervating influence poured:
But to himself again restored,
Upspringing light, he grasped his foe,
And checked the meditated blow,
And on the Druid's breast repelled
The steel his own wild fury held.
The vital stream flowed fast away,
And stained Andraste's altars grey.
More ghastly pale his features dire
Gleamed in that blue funereal fire:
The death-mists from his brow distilled:
But still his eyes strange lustre filled,
That seemed to pierce the secret springs
Of unimaginable things.
No longer, with malignant glare,
Revenge unsated glistened there,
And deadly rage, and stern despair:
All trace of evil passions fled,
He seemed to commune with the dead,
And draw from them, without alloy,
The raptures of prophetic joy.
A sudden breeze his temples fanned:
His harp, untouched by human hand,
Sent forth a sound, a thrilling sound,
That rang through all the mystic round:
The incense-flame rose broad and bright,
In one wide stream of meteor-light.
He knew what power illumed the blaze,
What spirit swept the strings along:
Full on the youth his kindling gaze
He fixed, and poured his soul in song.
Gleamed in that blue funereal fire:
The death-mists from his brow distilled:
But still his eyes strange lustre filled,
That seemed to pierce the secret springs
Of unimaginable things.
No longer, with malignant glare,
Revenge unsated glistened there,
And deadly rage, and stern despair:
All trace of evil passions fled,
He seemed to commune with the dead,
And draw from them, without alloy,
The raptures of prophetic joy.
A sudden breeze his temples fanned:
His harp, untouched by human hand,
Sent forth a sound, a thrilling sound,
That rang through all the mystic round:
127
In one wide stream of meteor-light.
He knew what power illumed the blaze,
What spirit swept the strings along:
Full on the youth his kindling gaze
He fixed, and poured his soul in song.
Roman! life's declining tide
From my bosom ebbs apace:
Vengeance have the gods denied
For the ruin of my race.
Triumph not: in night compressed,
Yet the northern tempests rest,
Doomed to burst, in fatal hour,
On the pride of Roman power.
From my bosom ebbs apace:
Vengeance have the gods denied
For the ruin of my race.
Triumph not: in night compressed,
Yet the northern tempests rest,
Doomed to burst, in fatal hour,
On the pride of Roman power.
Sweetly beams the morning ray:
Proudly falls the noon-tide glow:
See! beneath the closing day,
Storm-clouds darken, whirlwinds blow!
Sun-beams gild the tranquil shore:
Hark! the midnight breakers roar!
O'er the deep, by tempests torn,
Shrieks of shipwrecked souls are borne!
Proudly falls the noon-tide glow:
See! beneath the closing day,
Storm-clouds darken, whirlwinds blow!
Sun-beams gild the tranquil shore:
Hark! the midnight breakers roar!
O'er the deep, by tempests torn,
Shrieks of shipwrecked souls are borne!
Queen of earth, imperial Rome
Rules, in boundless sway confessed,
From the day-star's orient dome
To the limits of the west.
Proudest work of mortal hands,
The Eternal City stands:
Bound in her all-circling sphere,
Monarchs kneel, and nations fear.
Rules, in boundless sway confessed,
From the day-star's orient dome
To the limits of the west.
Proudest work of mortal hands,
The Eternal City stands:
128
Monarchs kneel, and nations fear.
Hark! the stream of ages raves:
Gifted eyes its course behold:
Down its all-absorbing waves
Mightiest chiefs and kings are rolled.
Every work of human pride,
Sapped by that eternal tide,
Shall the raging current sweep
Tow'rds oblivion's boundless deep.
Gifted eyes its course behold:
Down its all-absorbing waves
Mightiest chiefs and kings are rolled.
Every work of human pride,
Sapped by that eternal tide,
Shall the raging current sweep
Tow'rds oblivion's boundless deep.
Confident in wide control,
Rome beholds that torrent flow,
Heedless how the waters roll,
Wasting, mining, as they go.
That sure torrent saps at length
Walls of adamantine strength:
Down its eddies wild shall pass
Domes of marble, towers of brass.
Rome beholds that torrent flow,
Heedless how the waters roll,
Wasting, mining, as they go.
That sure torrent saps at length
Walls of adamantine strength:
Down its eddies wild shall pass
Domes of marble, towers of brass.
As the sailor's fragile bark,
Beaten by the adverse breeze,
Sinks afar, and leaves no mark
Of its passage o'er the seas;
So shall Rome's colossal sway
In the lapse of time decay,
Leaving of her ancient fame
But the memory of a name.
Beaten by the adverse breeze,
Sinks afar, and leaves no mark
Of its passage o'er the seas;
So shall Rome's colossal sway
In the lapse of time decay,
Leaving of her ancient fame
But the memory of a name.
Vainly raged the storms of Gaul
Round dread Jove's Tarpeian dome:
See in flames the fabric fall!
'Tis the funeral pyre of Rome!
Red-armed vengeance rushes forth
In the whirlwinds of the north:
From her hand the sceptre riven
To transalpine realms is given.
Round dread Jove's Tarpeian dome:
129
'Tis the funeral pyre of Rome!
Sed nihil æque, quam incendium Capitolii, ut finem imperio adesse crederent, impulerat. Captam olim à Gallis urbem; sed, integra Jovis sede, mansisse imperium. Fatali nunc igne, signum cœlestis irœ datum, et possessionem rerum humanarum transalpinis gentibus portendi, superstitione vana Druidæ canebant. Tacitus.
Red-armed vengeance rushes forth
In the whirlwinds of the north:
From her hand the sceptre riven
To transalpine realms is given.
Darkness veils the stream of time,
As the wrecks of Rome dissolve:
Years of anarchy and crime
In barbaric night revolve.
From the rage of feudal strife
Peace and freedom spring to life,
Where the morning sun-beams smile
On the sea-god's favorite isle.
As the wrecks of Rome dissolve:
Years of anarchy and crime
In barbaric night revolve.
From the rage of feudal strife
Peace and freedom spring to life,
Where the morning sun-beams smile
On the sea-god's favorite isle.
Hail! all hail! my native land!
Long thy course of glory keep:
Long thy sovereign sails expand
O'er the subjugated deep!
When of Rome's unbounded reign
Dust and shade alone remain,
Thou thy head divine shalt raise,
Through interminable days.
Long thy course of glory keep:
Long thy sovereign sails expand
O'er the subjugated deep!
When of Rome's unbounded reign
Dust and shade alone remain,
Thou thy head divine shalt raise,
Through interminable days.
Death-mists hover: voices rise:
I obey the summons dread:
On the stone my life-blood dyes
Sinks to rest my weary head.
Far from scenes of night and woe,
To eternal groves I go,
Where for me my brethren wait
By Andraste's palace-gate.
I obey the summons dread:
On the stone my life-blood dyes
Sinks to rest my weary head.
Far from scenes of night and woe,
To eternal groves I go,
Where for me my brethren wait
By Andraste's palace-gate.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |