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7
CANTO I.
THE YACHT—THE PIRATE OF THE ARCHIPELAGO—BOULOGNE—ANGELIQUE—PARIS—THE LOUVRE—THE THREE MONARCHS.
I
Must all earth's idlers harp upon one string?—“Rome a Mosaic fragment of the sky!”—
“A Naples Winter—worth a London Spring!”—
“Ye Goths! once visit Naples, and then—die!”—
Elysium but a type of Italy!
Here, “Tiger,” pack my passports and valise.
Let who will bear the taunt, so will not I,
While Monsieur Joinville deigns to give us peace;—
(Steam and six hours , if dark, must break old England's lease!)
8
II
Let Exquisites and Envoys take the packet,I leave the milksops to their three hour's fright;
'Scaping that hospital, with all its racket,
I by the Southern railroad take my flight
To my sea-paradise, the Isle of Wight!
There the Yacht Squadron lies, at single anchor;
All pennants loose—I know no prettier sight;
When London smoke begins the soul to canker,
Or when one's last account comes wafered, from one's banker.
THE YACHT
I have a friend, a rambler like myself,Who hates to hear the Channel surges bellow,
Wears at his button-hole, not even the Guelph !
Envies no living “admiral of the yellow,”
Detests your red-faced, rough, sea-going fellow,
Knows in St. James's every saint and sinner,
In all the Mayfair mysteries is mellow;
Yet, keeps a yacht, a famous gold-cup winner,
And gives his town allies a sofa, sail, and dinner.
9
IV
But, let me show you to the “Captain's” berth,The cabin, where he rules “en vrai Sultaun,”
Circled with “small necessities” of earth;—
The hookah's fragrance through the crystal drawn,
The high-life novel (read with many a yawn;)
And, glittering round the little sea-boudoir,
Enamelled pistols, daggers Ottoman;
For billets-doux, an ivory Escritoire.
With fifty bijou things, too long for my “mémoire.”
V
Buhl tables, strewed with trinkets and virtu,Carrara marbles on consoles, around;
Some “Chalon” portraits, exquisite, though few,—
(The names, of course, a mystery profound!)
A soft Æolian's sentimental sound,
Breathing at every whisper of the breeze;
All ruder tones by silken curtains drown'd.—
The little round of little luxuries,
Which make a yachtman's life a little at its ease!
10
VI
Then comes the dinner (à la Clarendon),Covers for four (all yacht-men dine off plate,
Though, for dessert, the Sèvres still is “ton.”)
Soup, turtle,—dinner on the board at eight.
(Two Frenchmen, two Italians, on us wait.)
Then chasse-café, a glass of iced champagne,
Johannisberg, from Metternich's estate;
Lafitte, just sipped, to cool the wines of Spain.
Thus life is roughed at sea. “Britannia, rule the main.”
VII
But, now the breeze awakes—the anchor's up.Smooth as a fish, beside the beach we glide,
Lounging on deck, till comes the hour, to sup.
How pleasantly the yacht just feels the tide!
Then takes a stretch, and sweeps the waters wide;
While sink the lights along the lessening shore,
Till the last murmurs of the land have died,
And the surge glitters, like a starry floor—
And yet—an evening sail may sometimes prove a bore.
11
THE ARCHIPELAGO.
Pray, reader, have you seen a naval action?If so, I need not tell you, 'tis no trifle.
Once in my life, I had that satisfaction,
And heard enough of carronade and rifle,
Closed by a bath, that might a seahorse stifle.
But, to my tale.—'Twas on a summer-night;
The world and sea were smooth. I had no wife ill,
Was not in love or debt; my heart was light—
Just the last man, and hour, to choose a pirate-fight.
IX
The moon was sinking softly behind Cos ,Like a sultana, couching on the sea;
I lay on deck, to see her beams emboss
Bright mount, tall minaret, and fruit-hung tree.
Anon came, slyly stealing up our lee,
A dark, long-sided, rogueish-looking thing;
But not a sound was heard of gloom or glee:
She swept around us with a sullen swing,
As round the pigeon sweeps the falcon on the wing.
12
X
The “maiden moon” soon brought us to a check,Played a jilt's trick, and left us in the dark.
The boatswain piped “all hands”—all stood on deck:
Up went the signal-lanterns;—not a spark
Shone, stem or stern, about our neighbour bark.
“No answer?—Try a shot, and get her range.”
We heard our twelve-pound message reach its mark,
She still kept wearing, looking shy and strange,
When, all at once, out burst her broadside in exchange!
XI
This settled all our qualms; we blazed pell mell,Loading and firing, till our guns were hot.
Our gallant ship all smoke, the air all yell,
The sea around us, like a witches' pot,
Boiling and bubbling. Still, in that same spot,
Stood the black pirate, pouring in her fire;
Round, grape, and all the “regulation shot,”
As thick as any tourist might desire;
Both roaring, as I've seen old Ætna's flaming spire.
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XII
But now, the gale (at first we were becalmed)Came on, in gusts that ripped the sea in foam.
The two bold brawlers mutually salám'd .
Each bark—smoke-covered, like a glass-house dome.
Home came our topmasts, happy to “get home,”
The broadsides snapping mast and shroud, and sail.
(I made a vow, in Greece no more to roam.)
Still crashed the grape, the musket shower'd its hail,
And bellow'd o'er them all the thunders of the gale.
XIII
“Boarders, be ready!” was the captain's word.“That bark is ours.—Blue jackets, to the poop!”
Up went the helm. With pistol, pike, and sword,
We jump'd upon her deck at one fell swoop.
A pleasant sight we had—There stood a troop
Of ev'ry villain face, from Pole to Line,
Greek, Arab, Negro, a delicious group!
In front, their pikes—below, the magazine;
Above us, storm—around, the black and roaring brine!
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XIV
Yet things will happen 'twixt the cup and lip:The bark was scarcely boarded, when a blaze,
That show'd we should make little by our trip,
Was clearly making way among the stays.
(Our own good ship had vanish'd in the haze),
While every freshening gust renewed the flame;
And thus, instead of prize-money and praise,
Cinders or sharks seemed doom'd to end our fame.—
Well, chance is all in all; the world is but a game!
XV
'Tis true, the sea was round us, cool enough;But what, except a grampus, there could live?
Our ship had now come back, and tried to luff,
Dipping and dripping like a Lapland sieve.
I felt my time was come to roast,—or dive!
So, made a speech, not long, but somewhat pithy:
“My lads, these rogues have smoked us from their hive,
This deck will soon be burning like a smithy:
Take my advice, and swim; here goes, good luck be with ye.”
15
XVI
With that, I plunged, five fathom deep, in ocean;And rose, half choking, on a mountain billow,
Having of sea-salt drunk my full proportion.
There lay I, tossing like a weeping willow,
With some three hundred on the self-same pillow,
Thinking of our black bed-fellow, the shark;
(With, now and then, an ancient peccadillo:)
But, soon to heaven shot up a blaze; and, hark!
A roar of gunpowder:—good bye to the bold bark!
XVII
You may presume, that I was haul'd on board:Or else the wondering world had lost my story.
I never told it since—(I've sheathed my sword:)
I hate your “long-yarn people,” whig or tory.
I leave De Joinville all my naval glory;
Wishing him only where I was that night,
Battling with burning wrecks and surges gory;
Much doubting if my skin were water-tight.
His laurels are to come—I've had my pirate fight.
16
BOULOGNE.
Now to the world again! We ran up Channel;Dropped anchor in thy surge of mire, Boulogne;
Saw Bond-street “émigrés,” in gout and flannel;
Saw heroes, to their tailors too well known;
Saw Cheapside exquisites “performing” ton;
Saw, in his second childhood, dear John Bull,
Playing the fool, in languages unknown;
Trying with sour Medoc his cares to lull;
Yawning from morn till night, loose, lazy, shrunk, and dull.
XIX
We rambled round the sights—The horse-pond bay,Where rotted thy last fleet, Napoleon;
Laughed at thy Pillar , trophy of child's-play!
Ordered our bill and britchska, and were gone:
Stumbled o'er fifty leagues of ruthless stone;
Saw women, priests, and horses, on their knees;
Heard our postilions howl on the trombone;
Breathed villainous tobacco in each breeze,
And swallowed “old champagne,” fresh made, from last year's lees.
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XX
“On, on,”—I hate to linger in my journey;Dash down the valley, gallop up the hill!
I'd rather spend an hour with my attorney,
Marry a “philosophe,” or make my will,
Than, when I've once got under weigh, stand still.—
What spires are these, just gleaming in the noon?
We reach and rouse thy streets, old Abbéville—
What dome is rising, like a brick balloon?
The Invalides'—Day sinks—we gallop by the moon!
XXI
A Paris moon! burlesque of the sublime;—And yet, when shining on some quiet shore,
When airs are sweet and soft, in summer-time,
And scarce a sail is seen, or heard an oar;
And those, whom once we loved, yet meet no more,
Seem passing, like the cloud before the wind;
Forms, buried long, within the bosom's core;
Fond memories, in our heart of heart enshrined—
Moonlight, I own, that thou art pleasant to my mind.
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XXII
Gallic travel, one meets many a wreck,The once proud mansion of the great and gay,
Which still some remnants of old splendour deck.
But, one I passed this evening, dim and gray,
(Seen, not unfitly, by the moon's pale ray;)
Its last, lone turret peeping from its grove;
Crushed in the storm of France's furious day.
Which had a story, with some thoughts inwove
Of that strange, vanished thing, by old Romance called Love!
ANGELIQUE.
Within those walls, now, fifty years ago,Lived the old Maréchal, Marquis Delorange;
Proud of his rank, his lineage, and château;
Yet prouder of his Angelique—his “ange!”—
The star of all the country's gay mélange;
His daughter—woo'd by many a noble neighbour,
But, laughing at the thought of love or change;
With step as light, as ever danced to tabor;
Untouched by all the “charms” of coronet and sabre!
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XXIV
Young Angelique was like a morning rose,Bending and blushing in heaven's brightest dew;
Her cheek, that loveliest of all cheeks, which shows
Each feeling in its ever-changing hue;
The ringlets round her sunny forehead flew,
Like the rich cloudlets of a summer sky;
The heart was in her glance of heavenly blue;
A guileless heart, that never knew a sigh;
Gay as the springing lark, or new-winged butterfly.
XXV
But “what is written,” says the Turk, “is written.”Sweet Angelique, to her intense surprise,
Grew dreamy, silent, seemed to feel care-smitten—
Whether it came from sonnets, or from sighs,
Or the deep lustre of love-lighted eyes,
Sole birthright of a gallant soldier's son.
His father slept beneath Italian skies,
Covered with laurels; victory was won;
But—the heart-broken wife and orphan were undone!
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XXVI
They met at last; the world was strewn with roses!—The lover rushes to the “Grand Château,”
Falls at the Maréchal's feet—his soul discloses!—
The father calmly strikes the mortal blow;
“Sir,” said the stately Noble, “you should know,
My title is not older than Charlemagne;
My rentes, a million francs!—both, much too low,
For such a splendid specimen of man!
Pray, when did you last build your ‘Châteaux en Espagne?’”
XXVII
As if a thunderbolt had dropt before him,The frantic lover darted from the room;
The pangs of humble birth and fortune tore him;
That haughty sarcasm had pronounced his doom.
The whole wide world was now a den, a tomb!
Fire in his heart and frenzy in his brain,
He wandered sleepless through that midnight's gloom,
Raving at fate, that gave him life in vain;
Longing to die, and yet—delighting in his chain!
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XXVIII
They are the heart's young visions so unstable?The legend tells us—“souls were formed in pairs,”—
('Tis Plato's tale—too pretty for a fable)—
They, hand in hand, descend th' Olympian stairs,
Each finding at the foot its “pack” of cares.
They part, and roam the living world around!
Some meet again; the prize of life is theirs!
More stray—their kindred spirit still unfound—
Till, in Elysium's bowers, their marriage rite is crown'd!
XXIX
Next morn, the youth before his mother knelt,And asked her blessing, and his father's sword;
Her gushing tears upon his forehead felt—
Then, wildly flew to join the fiery horde,
Which France, like lava, on the nations poured!
Reckless of life—to die, his sole desire;
Wherever sabre clashed, or cannon roared,
He rushed, in bitterness of shame and ire;
Foremost in every field, in toil, and flood, and fire!
22
XXX
Those, too, were times of wonder—Simplon's ridge !Blasted with battle, drenched with blood, like rain;—
And the red massacre of Lodi's bridge—
And the fierce charge of Alessandria's plain—
When France's chieftain, like the comet's train,
Filled the pale land at once with fear and flame;
When sank in blood the Austrian's eagle-vane;
When the crowned Lions of the earth were tame;
And Europe's withering heart but echoed one wild name!
XXXI
But, those were days of woe to Angelique—The smile from her delicious lip was gone,
The rose had perished on her gentle cheek;
She loved but one, and she had lost that one!—
Her father fell, in battle for the throne!
Then came the tidings—ere the tears had dried,
Shed from her heart upon his burial-stone—
“Her lover, by Vienna's walls, had died;”
Making his funeral-bed in Danube's gory tide!
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XXXII
Time smooths the heart, as water smooths the stone—(By wearing it away!) Years flowed along;
Sweet Angelique, left helpless and alone,
Too soft for struggle, too unknown for wrong,
Borne on the current of life's nameless throng;
Was wedded, widowed, wandered climes afar;
Yet, in her lonely soul one pulse beat strong,
'Twas for her gallant boy—her young hussar—
Now, following to the North Napoleon's fatal Star!
XXXIII
One eve, a horseman galloped to her door,To tell her—“that her son was doom'd to die!”
She wept not—fainted not—she heard no more!
But, in a mother's love, and agony,
She braved the wilderness, the war, the sky—
And found him in his dungeon, sad and pale.
She sat beside him, till the night passed by;
The world, to them, was nothing in the scale—
And there she wept, and prayed, and listened to his tale.
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XXXIV
“He loved his General's daughter, and was loved,(The tale was often checked, in grief and shame)
“He sought her hand; his passion was reproved;
“Her haughty father scorned his humble name!
“Then, in the hour of frenzy and of flame—
“(Would he had perished in some gallant field!)
“He challenged his superior!—Trial came—
“The Emperor's sentence, Death!—his doom was sealed!
“Next morn—his agonies of heart should all be healed.”
XXXV
'Twas dawn.—The drums were heard, the arms unpiled.The mother to the victim's bosom clung;
Kissed him, then rushed away; faint, lonely, wild:
Veiled from all eyes.—No sound escaped her tongue,
Till at the General's feet her form was flung:
There she implored in vain;—yet still implored.
“Must her last tie to earth be lost—so young,
So brave, so guiltless; by the troops adored?”—
Still sat the stately chief, as rigid as his sword!
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XXXVI
Yet spoke he soothingly, though stern and grave:—“Her son might live, could bravery atone
An act, no Earthly discipline forgave.—
His suit, too, was presumptuous,—birth unknown;—
The world was never made for love alone;—
High honours to high birth were best allied;
A general's daughter yet might share a throne.”—
At once she knew him—wildly rose, and cried,
“And thou—hast thou, too, known the scorpion sting of Pride?”
XXXVII
He started;—there was memory, in the tone!(How swift flies back the heart through many a year!)
The veil was, in her anguish, upward thrown—
The form that oft had filled his dreams, stood there!
He heard the voice, once magic to his ear!
(Time, and the world, may check our smiles or sighs;
Nay, Passion's self forget its early tear;
But, say what will the wisdom of the wise;
In hearts of noble mould, the first love never dies.)
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XXXVIII
Few hearts have never loved; but fewer stillHave felt a second passion; none a third!
The first was living fire; the next—a thrill!—
The weary heart can never more be stirred;
Rely on it, the song has left the bird!
—All's for the best.—The fever and the flame,
The pulse, that was a pang; the glance, a word;
The tone, that shot like lightning through the frame,
Can shatter us no more:—the rest is but a name!
XXXIX
And Angelique looked lovelier yet, to him:Her beauty seemed, by suffering, refined.
(War and the World might dazzle, yet not dim,
The glance, that saw the loveliness of mind;
Beauty, with tenderness and thought combined.)
He felt the mournful grandeur of her eye,
As, statue-like, she stood—all hope resigned;
Gazing on Heaven—still murmuring, like a sigh,
With pale and quivering lip—“Oh! must he, must he die?”
27
XL
She turned away:—he clasped her marble hand;His heart was young as ever;—all was o'er!—
He was her lover in her own sweet land!
The struggle of some desperate day of gore,
Had flung him, wounded, on the Danube's shore;
Chance rescued him; he fought his way to fame.—
Her young hussar was saved!—I know no more,—
But, two fair brides, one morn, to Warsaw came:—
Ye heroes and hussars, I wish you all—the same!
PARIS.
Paris, thou strangest thing, of all things strange;Young beauty, superannuated flirt;
True to one love alone, and that one, Change;
Glittering, yet grim; half diamonds, and half dirt
Thou model of—two ruffles and no shirt!
Thy court, thy kingdom, and thy life, a game;
Worn out with age, and yet, by time unhurt;
Light without lustre, glory without fame,
Earth's darkest picture, set in Earth's most gilded frame.
28
XLII
Gay spot! where all the world is in a hurry,Rambling, and scrambling o'er thy pavements stony.
Gay spot! where all Earth's idlest idlers bury
Time, trouble, cash, and conscience, chez Tortoni—
Thy mob, the genuine northern Lazzaroni.
I say no more of thee, (I scorn to quote)—
All Europe's troops have been thy Ciceroni!
The Bashkir bowmen have thee all by rote;
I merely pause, to give one Louvre anecdote.
THE THREE MONARCHS.
Reality has often its romance!Who can forget that “Soldier's” year “Fifteen?”
When Waterloo “closed all accounts” with France,
And Paris was one huge theatric scene,
Crowded with dukes and “Highnesses serene;”
Where kings and kaisers daily trod the boards,
And every second woman was a queen,
And all was crowns and sceptres, cannon, swords!
Thundering and trumpeting—all Lifeguards, Hosts, and Hordes!
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XLIV
'Tis true, poor Jean-Francois was in a rage;And grinn'd most terribly—(behind our back):
What then?—we let him chatter in his cage,
And gave him for his keeper the Cossack.
Then was the sight,—the Boulevard bivouac!
All—tents, guns, banners, blue, and red, and green;
Austrian and Prussian, Tartar, Russ, Polack,—
(Like the first Act of Schiller's “Wallenstein”)—
All nations come, to pay their “visit to the Seine.”
XLV
One morn, the honest, homely King of PrussiaCalled on the Emperor Francis, for a stroll;
And dropping in upon their brother, Russia;
Found him at Véry's, at his chop and roll;
And having settled all, from Line to Pole—
Proposed to spend one half hour at their ease:
So, slipping Chiefs of Staff, and Grooms of Stole,
And tempted by the summer sky and breeze,
They sauntered, arm in arm, to see the Tuileries.
30
XLVI
They found the Louvre open, and walked in,—Unknown; three quiet, plain, blackcoated men!
All there, as usual, bustle, crowd, and din!
A tide of peasant, soldier, citizen!—
To force the passage, was no trifle, then;
For, all before them was the world's “tenth” Wonder!
(Long since all buried in its monkish den.)
The world had never seen such brilliant plunder;
I think, to strip it was, a more than Gothic blunder
This opinion is given, merely on the point of European convenience. On the point of policy, there can be no doubt whatever that the “Great Duke” was right in his pithy remark. But, with respect to Napoleon's original seizure of the Italian galleries, all men have long since given up the sentimentality formerly expressed on the subject. As conqueror, they were his. If they were worth defending by the Italians, they ought to have been fought for by the Italians. They were the prize of victory, and the most magnificent of all prizes. Their effect on the vanity of the French populace was incalculable; and it was upon this vanity that Napoleon's whole system of both war and peace was founded. Tyrant as he was, he thoroughly knew French mankind.
XLVII
What, if Napoleon robbed some craven throne;The sitter, first had sold himself to shame;—
(I should have mulcted him of flesh and bone!)
Now, all is gone to darkness, whence it came;
To cowls, and cobwebs!—Well, the world's to blame!
I only wish, that I could give ye wings,
Or sweep ye on some whirlwind car of flame,
Back to my gaze again, ye glorious things!
Now, I must hunt ye out, 'mid monks, and monkish kings!
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XLVIII
(Not, that I mean to break through my decision,Never to talk of picture-galleries,)
But, then the Louvre was no earthly vision;—
Such lovely nuns! you almost heard their sighs;
Such pontiffs! (all the Popedom in their eyes;)
Such monks! with heavenward looks, (which monks had never!)
Such nymphs! as glowing as their own Greek skies;
Such chieftains! made to ride and rule for ever;
One scarcely drew one's breath,—'twas all gasp, flush, and fever!
XLIX
And then, what alabasters, bronzes, marbles!—All bursting on you, in one gorgeous glare.
(Pencil or pen the witchery but garbles)—
The eye and mind were all one dazzled stare.
Or, as you rushed, half fainting, to fresh air;
Just then, some face, of such deep loveliness,
Beamed from its canvas, that it fixed you there!
Some “Dama,” with bright eye and jet-black tress,
Jewelled, and grand!—I love that old Venetian dress!
32
L
Then, the Apollo!—splendid!—which the PopeOffered to give us.—My beloved Allies,
I should have wished you all (in Heaven, I hope!)
Ere I refused, like Castlereagh, the prize.
(Alas! the wisest are not always wise)
I should have taken him, with all my soul!
The Venus, too, found favour in my eyes;
Dimples and all!—I loved her, every mole!
Dianas, Graces, Nymphs!—I should have grasped the whole!
LI
As rambled the three Sovereigns up and down,They met a rather puzzled English squire,
Who, thinking them three tradesmen of the town,
Asked them all questions, to his heart's desire:—
“Who painted this gay dame, or that old friar?”
At last, when fairly tired of picture-frames,
He said,—“I've now but one thing to enquire;
You have been civil, give me your three names:
I'll send you each some trout, when next I fish the Thames.”
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LII
“You speak,” said one, “to Frederic, King of Prussia;Now, keep your secret, stranger, and retire.”—
“I,” said the next, “am—but the Czar of Russia.”
“Better, and better still!” laughed out the squire.
“Friend,” said the third, “I own, I'm nothing higher;
Than Austria's Emperor!”—“The moon's at full!”
Their hearer roared; “I'll not be in the mire!—
I'm better than your best!—I'm no John Bull!
Good morning, lads! Ha! ha! I am the Great Mogul!”
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