 | Geraldine (1838) |  |
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FLOWERS.
Wilt thou gaze with me on flowers,
And let their speaking eyes
Glancing brightly up to ours
Teach us to be wise?
And let their speaking eyes
Glancing brightly up to ours
Teach us to be wise?
The pale narcissus tells of youth
Nurtured in purity and truth;
Violets on the moss-bank green,
Of sweet benevolence unseen;
A rose is blooming charity;
A snow-drop, fair humility;
Yon golden crocus, smiling sweetly,
Smiles, alas, to perish fleetly;
That hyacinth, with cluster'd bells,
Of sympathy in sorrow tells;
This young mimosa, as it trembles,
Affection's thrilling heart resembles;
And the glazed myrtle's fragrant bloom
Hints at a life that mocks the tomb.
Nurtured in purity and truth;
Violets on the moss-bank green,
Of sweet benevolence unseen;
A rose is blooming charity;
A snow-drop, fair humility;
Yon golden crocus, smiling sweetly,
Smiles, alas, to perish fleetly;
That hyacinth, with cluster'd bells,
Of sympathy in sorrow tells;
This young mimosa, as it trembles,
Affection's thrilling heart resembles;
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Hints at a life that mocks the tomb.
What is a flower? a beauteous gem
Set in nature's diadem,
A sunbeam o'er her tresses flung,
A word from her poetic tongue,
A silent burst of eloquence,
A plaything of Omnipotence;—
The poet's eye sees much in these,
To learn, and love, and praise, and please.
Set in nature's diadem,
A sunbeam o'er her tresses flung,
A word from her poetic tongue,
A silent burst of eloquence,
A plaything of Omnipotence;—
The poet's eye sees much in these,
To learn, and love, and praise, and please.
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THE FORSAKEN.
I thought him still sincere,
I hoped he lov'd me yet;
My poor heart pants with harrowing fear,—
O canst thou thus forget?
I hoped he lov'd me yet;
My poor heart pants with harrowing fear,—
O canst thou thus forget?
I gaz'd into his face
And scann'd his features o'er,
And there was still each manly grace
That won my love before;
And scann'd his features o'er,
And there was still each manly grace
That won my love before;
But coldly look'd those eyes
Which oft had thrill'd my breast,
He was too great, too rich, too wise,
To make me his confest.
Which oft had thrill'd my breast,
He was too great, too rich, too wise,
To make me his confest.
Couldst thou know what I felt
To see thee light and gay,
Thy frozen heart would warm and melt,
And weep its ice away:
To see thee light and gay,
Thy frozen heart would warm and melt,
And weep its ice away:
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Yes, I can tell of tears
These eyes for thee have shed,
In daily, nightly, hourly, pray'rs
For blessings on thy head.
These eyes for thee have shed,
In daily, nightly, hourly, pray'rs
For blessings on thy head.
I name thee not, through shame
That truth should fade and flee:
Fear not,-thy love, thy vows, thy name
Are known to none but me.
That truth should fade and flee:
Fear not,-thy love, thy vows, thy name
Are known to none but me.
Farewell! 'tis mine to prove
Of blighted hopes the pain;
But, O believe, I ne'er can love,
As I have lov'd, again:
Of blighted hopes the pain;
But, O believe, I ne'er can love,
As I have lov'd, again:
Farewell! 'tis thine to change,
Forget, be false, be free;
But know, wherever thou shalt range,
That none can love like me.
Forget, be false, be free;
But know, wherever thou shalt range,
That none can love like me.
133
THE MAST OF THE VICTORY.
A BALLAD; FOUNDED ON AN ANECDOTE HERE DETAILED.
PART I.
Nine years the good ship's gallant mast
Encountered storm and battle,
Stood firm and fast against the blast,
And grape-shots' iron rattle:
Encountered storm and battle,
Stood firm and fast against the blast,
And grape-shots' iron rattle:
And still, though lightning, ball, and pike,
Had stricken oft, and scor'd her,
The Victory could never strike,—
For Nelson was aboard her!
Had stricken oft, and scor'd her,
The Victory could never strike,—
For Nelson was aboard her!
High in the air waved proudly there
Old England's flag of glory,—
While see! below the broad decks flow,
With streaming slaughter gory;
Old England's flag of glory,—
While see! below the broad decks flow,
With streaming slaughter gory;
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Each thundering gun is robed in dun,
That broadside was a beauty,—
Hip, hip, hurrah! the battle's won,
Hip, hip, hurrah! each man has done
This day a sailor's duty.
That broadside was a beauty,—
Hip, hip, hurrah! the battle's won,
Hip, hip, hurrah! each man has done
This day a sailor's duty.
But, woesome lot! a coward shot
Struck Nelson as he vanquish'd,
And Britain in her griefs forgot
Her glories, where her son was not,—
Her lion-heart was anguish'd.
Struck Nelson as he vanquish'd,
And Britain in her griefs forgot
Her glories, where her son was not,—
Her lion-heart was anguish'd.
For hit at last, against that mast
The hero, faintly lying,
Felt the cold breath of nearing death,
And knew that he was dying.
The hero, faintly lying,
Felt the cold breath of nearing death,
And knew that he was dying.
PART II.
And past is many a weary day,
Since that dark glorious hour,
And half the mast was stow'd away
In Windsor's royal tower;
Since that dark glorious hour,
And half the mast was stow'd away
In Windsor's royal tower;
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But three feet good of that old wood
So scarr'd in war, and rotten,
Was thrown aside, unknown its pride,
Its honours all forgotten;
So scarr'd in war, and rotten,
Was thrown aside, unknown its pride,
Its honours all forgotten;
When, as in shade the block was laid,
Two robins, perching on it,
Thought that place best to build a nest,
They plann'd it, and have done it:
Two robins, perching on it,
Thought that place best to build a nest,
They plann'd it, and have done it:
The splinter'd spot which lodg'd a shot
Is lined with moss and feather,
And chirping loud, a callow brood
Are nestling up together:
Is lined with moss and feather,
And chirping loud, a callow brood
Are nestling up together:
How full of bliss,—how peaceful is
That spot the soft nest caging,
Where war's alarms, and blood-stain'd arms
Were once around it raging!
That spot the soft nest caging,
Where war's alarms, and blood-stain'd arms
Were once around it raging!
And so in sooth it is a truth
That where the heart is stricken,
Sweeter at last, for perils past
That us'd the soul to sicken,
That where the heart is stricken,
Sweeter at last, for perils past
That us'd the soul to sicken,
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Comes a soft calm, with healing balm
Where sorrow deeply smarted,
And peace with strength is sent at length
To bless the broken-hearted.
Where sorrow deeply smarted,
And peace with strength is sent at length
To bless the broken-hearted.
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THE AFRICAN DESERT.
SYNOPSIS.
By contemplating a guilty death-bed, the mind is brought to that state in which it can best picture the desolation of nature.—The desert.—Allusion to the fable of the cranes and pigmies.—The contrast afforded by surrounding countries.— The omnipotent God.—Man regarded as an intruder on the wastes of nature.—Exemplified by the journey and fate of a caravan crossing the desert.—In detail.—An African sunrise. —Approach of the caravan.—Solitude.—The father and child. —Mirage.—The well in sight.—The simoom.—The stillness that succeeds.
Go, child of pity! watch the sullen glare
That lights the haggard features of despair,
As upon dying guilt's distracted sight
Rise the black clouds of everlasting night;
Drink in the fever'd eyeball's dismal ray,
And gaze again,—and turn not yet away,
Drink in its anguish, till thy heart and eye
Reel with the draught of that sad lethargy;
Till gloom with chilling fears thy soul congeal,
And on thy bosom stamp her leaden seal,
Till Melancholy flaps her heavy wings
Above thy fancy's light imaginings,
And sorrow wraps thee in her sable shroud,
And terror in a gathering thunder-cloud!
That lights the haggard features of despair,
As upon dying guilt's distracted sight
Rise the black clouds of everlasting night;
Drink in the fever'd eyeball's dismal ray,
And gaze again,—and turn not yet away,
Drink in its anguish, till thy heart and eye
Reel with the draught of that sad lethargy;
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And on thy bosom stamp her leaden seal,
Till Melancholy flaps her heavy wings
Above thy fancy's light imaginings,
And sorrow wraps thee in her sable shroud,
And terror in a gathering thunder-cloud!
Go, call up darkness from his dread abode,
Bid desolation fling her curse abroad,
—Then gaze around on nature!—ah, how drear,
How widow-like she sits in sadness here:
Lost are the glowing tints, the softening shades,
Her sunny meadows, and her greenwood glades;
No grateful flow'r has gemm'd its mother-earth,
Rejoicing in the blessedness of birth;
No blithesome lark has wak'd the drowsy day,
No sorrowing dews have wept themselves away:
Faded,—the smiles that dimpled in her vales;
Scatter'd, the fragrance of the spicy gales
That dew'd her locks with odours, as they swept
The waving groves, or in the rose-bud slept!
Bid desolation fling her curse abroad,
—Then gaze around on nature!—ah, how drear,
How widow-like she sits in sadness here:
Lost are the glowing tints, the softening shades,
Her sunny meadows, and her greenwood glades;
No grateful flow'r has gemm'd its mother-earth,
Rejoicing in the blessedness of birth;
No blithesome lark has wak'd the drowsy day,
No sorrowing dews have wept themselves away:
Faded,—the smiles that dimpled in her vales;
Scatter'd, the fragrance of the spicy gales
That dew'd her locks with odours, as they swept
The waving groves, or in the rose-bud slept!
Is this the desert? this the blighted plain
Where silence holds her melancholy reign,—
Where foot of daring mortal scarce hath trod,
But all around is solitude—and God,—
And where the sandy billows overwhelm
All but young Fancy's visionary realm,
In which, beneath the red moon's sickly glance,
Fantastic forms prolong the midnight dance,
And pigmy warriors, marshall'd on the plains,
Shout high defiance to the invading cranes?
Where silence holds her melancholy reign,—
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But all around is solitude—and God,—
And where the sandy billows overwhelm
All but young Fancy's visionary realm,
In which, beneath the red moon's sickly glance,
Fantastic forms prolong the midnight dance,
And pigmy warriors, marshall'd on the plains,
Shout high defiance to the invading cranes?
Regions of sorrow,—darkly have ye frown'd
Amidst a sunny world of smiles around:
Luxurious Persia, bower'd in rosy bloom,
Breathes the sweet air of Araby's perfume,
And where Italian suns in glory shine
To the green olive clings the tendrill'd vine;
In yon soft bosom of Iberia's vales
The orange-blossom scents the lingering gales,
That waft its sweets to where Madeira's plain
With emerald beauty gems the western main:
The winds that o'er the rough Ægæan sweep,
Tamed into zephyrs, on its islands sleep;
And where rich Delta drinks the swelling Nile,
Auspicious Ceres spreads her golden smile.
But on Sahara death has set his throne,
And reigns in sullen majesty alone:
Unfurl'd on high above the desert-king
The red simoom spreads forth its fiery wing,
The spirits of the storm his bidding wait,
Gigantic shadows swell his awful state,
And circling furies hover round his head,
To crown with flames the tyrant of the dead!
The desert shrank beneath him, as he pass'd,
Borne on the burning pinions of the blast;
He breath'd,—and solitude sat pining there;
He spake,—and silence hush'd the listening air;
He frown'd,—and blighted nature scarce could fly
The lightning glances of her monarch's eye,
But where he look'd in withering fury down,
A dying desert knit its giant frown!
Amidst a sunny world of smiles around:
Luxurious Persia, bower'd in rosy bloom,
Breathes the sweet air of Araby's perfume,
And where Italian suns in glory shine
To the green olive clings the tendrill'd vine;
In yon soft bosom of Iberia's vales
The orange-blossom scents the lingering gales,
That waft its sweets to where Madeira's plain
With emerald beauty gems the western main:
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Tamed into zephyrs, on its islands sleep;
And where rich Delta drinks the swelling Nile,
Auspicious Ceres spreads her golden smile.
But on Sahara death has set his throne,
And reigns in sullen majesty alone:
Unfurl'd on high above the desert-king
The red simoom spreads forth its fiery wing,
The spirits of the storm his bidding wait,
Gigantic shadows swell his awful state,
And circling furies hover round his head,
To crown with flames the tyrant of the dead!
The desert shrank beneath him, as he pass'd,
Borne on the burning pinions of the blast;
He breath'd,—and solitude sat pining there;
He spake,—and silence hush'd the listening air;
He frown'd,—and blighted nature scarce could fly
The lightning glances of her monarch's eye,
But where he look'd in withering fury down,
A dying desert knit its giant frown!
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Desolate wilds,—creation's barren grave,
Where dull as Lethe rolls the desert-wave,
How sparingly with warm existence rife
Have ye rejoic'd in love, or teem'd with life.
Can it then be in solitudes so drear,
That utter Nothing has its dwelling here?—
Hence,—thought of darkness!—o'er the sandy flood
Broods the great Spirit of a present God:
He is, where other being may not be;
Space cannot bind Him,—nor infinity!
Deeper than thought has ever dared to stray,
Higher than fancy wing'd her wondering way,
Beyond the beaming of the furthest star,
Beyond the pilgrim-comet's distant car,
Beyond all worlds, and glorious suns unseen,
He is, and will be, and has ever been!
Nor less,—where the huge iceberg lifts its head,
Dim as a dream, from ocean's polar bed;
Or where in softer climes creation glows,
And Paphos blushes from its banks of rose,
Or where fierce suns the panting desert sear,—
He is, and was, and ever will be, here!
Where dull as Lethe rolls the desert-wave,
How sparingly with warm existence rife
Have ye rejoic'd in love, or teem'd with life.
Can it then be in solitudes so drear,
That utter Nothing has its dwelling here?—
Hence,—thought of darkness!—o'er the sandy flood
Broods the great Spirit of a present God:
He is, where other being may not be;
Space cannot bind Him,—nor infinity!
Deeper than thought has ever dared to stray,
Higher than fancy wing'd her wondering way,
Beyond the beaming of the furthest star,
Beyond the pilgrim-comet's distant car,
Beyond all worlds, and glorious suns unseen,
He is, and will be, and has ever been!
Nor less,—where the huge iceberg lifts its head,
Dim as a dream, from ocean's polar bed;
Or where in softer climes creation glows,
And Paphos blushes from its banks of rose,
Or where fierce suns the panting desert sear,—
He is, and was, and ever will be, here!
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But would thy daring spirit, child of man,
The secret chambers of the desert scan,
Curtain'd with flames, and tenanted by death,
Fann'd by the tempest of Sirocco's breath?
With crested Azräel shall a mortal strive,
Or breathe the gales of pestilence, and live?
O then, let avarice his hand refrain,
Nor tempt the billows of that fiery main,
Let patience, toil, and courage nobly dare
Far other deeds than fruitless labours there,
Let dauntless enterprize, with generous zeal,
Toil, not unlaurell'd, for her fellows' weal,
But be the howling wilderness untrod,
And trackless still, Sahara's barren flood.
The secret chambers of the desert scan,
Curtain'd with flames, and tenanted by death,
Fann'd by the tempest of Sirocco's breath?
With crested Azräel shall a mortal strive,
Or breathe the gales of pestilence, and live?
O then, let avarice his hand refrain,
Nor tempt the billows of that fiery main,
Let patience, toil, and courage nobly dare
Far other deeds than fruitless labours there,
Let dauntless enterprize, with generous zeal,
Toil, not unlaurell'd, for her fellows' weal,
But be the howling wilderness untrod,
And trackless still, Sahara's barren flood.
Lo, from the streaming east, a blaze of light
Has swept to distant shores astonish'd night,
Darkness has snatch'd his spangled robe away,
And in full glory shines the new-born day;
Rejoice, ye flowery vales,—ye verdant isles
With the glad sunbeams weave your rosy smiles,
The bridegroom of the earth looks down in love,
And blooms in freshened beauty from above;
Ye waiting dews, leap to that warm embrace,
With fragrant incense bathe his blushing face,
Thou earth be robed in joy!—But one sad plain
Exults not, smiles not, to the morn again:
Soon as the sun is all in glory drest
The conscious desert heaves its troubled breast,
Like one, arous'd to ceaseless misery,
That, ever dying, strives once more—to die.
And can Sahara weep? with sudden blaze
Deep in her bosom pierce the cruel rays,
But never thence one tributary stream
Shall soar aloft to quench the maddening beam:
Tearless in agony, fixt in grief, alone,
Pines the sad daughter of the torrid zone,
A rocky monument of anguish deep,
The Niobe of Nature cannot weep!
Yet from her bosom steams the sandy cloud,
And heavily waves above;—a lurid shroud,
Dense as the wing of sorrow, flapping o'er
The wither'd heart, that may not blossom more.
Has swept to distant shores astonish'd night,
Darkness has snatch'd his spangled robe away,
And in full glory shines the new-born day;
Rejoice, ye flowery vales,—ye verdant isles
With the glad sunbeams weave your rosy smiles,
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And blooms in freshened beauty from above;
Ye waiting dews, leap to that warm embrace,
With fragrant incense bathe his blushing face,
Thou earth be robed in joy!—But one sad plain
Exults not, smiles not, to the morn again:
Soon as the sun is all in glory drest
The conscious desert heaves its troubled breast,
Like one, arous'd to ceaseless misery,
That, ever dying, strives once more—to die.
And can Sahara weep? with sudden blaze
Deep in her bosom pierce the cruel rays,
But never thence one tributary stream
Shall soar aloft to quench the maddening beam:
Tearless in agony, fixt in grief, alone,
Pines the sad daughter of the torrid zone,
A rocky monument of anguish deep,
The Niobe of Nature cannot weep!
Yet from her bosom steams the sandy cloud,
And heavily waves above;—a lurid shroud,
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The wither'd heart, that may not blossom more.
Faint o'er that burning desert, faint and slow,
Failing of limb, and pale with looks of woe,
Parch'd by the hot Siróc, and fiery ray,
The wearied kafflè winds its toilsome way.
'Tis long, long since the panther bounded by,
And howl'd, and gaz'd upon them wistfully;
Long since the monarch lion from his lair
Arose, and thunder'd to the stagnant air:
No wandering ostrich with extended wing
Flaps o'er the sands, to seek the distant spring;
Bounding from rock to rock, with curious scan
No wild gazelle surveys the stranger, man;
Nor does the famish'd tiger's lengthening roar
Speak to the winds and wake the echoes more.
But o'er these realms of sorrow, drear and vast,
In hollow dirges moans the desert blast,
Or breathing o'er the plain in smothered wrath
Howls to the skulls, that whiten on the path.
And as with heavy tramp they toil along,
Is heard no more the cheering Arab song,—
No more the wild Bedouin's joyous shriek
With startling homage greets his wandering shiek,
Only the mutter'd curse, or whisper'd pray'r,
Or deep death-rattle wakes the sluggish air.
Failing of limb, and pale with looks of woe,
Parch'd by the hot Siróc, and fiery ray,
The wearied kafflè winds its toilsome way.
'Tis long, long since the panther bounded by,
And howl'd, and gaz'd upon them wistfully;
Long since the monarch lion from his lair
Arose, and thunder'd to the stagnant air:
No wandering ostrich with extended wing
Flaps o'er the sands, to seek the distant spring;
Bounding from rock to rock, with curious scan
No wild gazelle surveys the stranger, man;
Nor does the famish'd tiger's lengthening roar
Speak to the winds and wake the echoes more.
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In hollow dirges moans the desert blast,
Or breathing o'er the plain in smothered wrath
Howls to the skulls, that whiten on the path.
And as with heavy tramp they toil along,
Is heard no more the cheering Arab song,—
No more the wild Bedouin's joyous shriek
With startling homage greets his wandering shiek,
Only the mutter'd curse, or whisper'd pray'r,
Or deep death-rattle wakes the sluggish air.
Behold one here, who till to-day has been
A father, and with bursting bosom seen
His last, his cherished one, whose waning eye
Smiled only resignation, droop and die!
Parch'd by the heat, those lips are curl'd and pale,
As rose-leaves withered in the northern gale;
Her eye no more its silent love shall speak,
No flush of life shall mantle on her cheek;—
Yet with a frenzied fondness to his child
The father clung, and thought his darling smil'd;
Ah, yes! 'tis death that o'er her beauty throws
That marble smile of deep and dread repose.
A father, and with bursting bosom seen
His last, his cherished one, whose waning eye
Smiled only resignation, droop and die!
Parch'd by the heat, those lips are curl'd and pale,
As rose-leaves withered in the northern gale;
Her eye no more its silent love shall speak,
No flush of life shall mantle on her cheek;—
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The father clung, and thought his darling smil'd;
Ah, yes! 'tis death that o'er her beauty throws
That marble smile of deep and dread repose.
What thrilling shouts are these that rend the sky,
Whence is the joy that lights the sunken eye?
On, on, they speed their burning thirst to slake
In the blue waters of yon rippled lake,—
Or must they still those maddening pangs assuage
In the sand-billows of the false mirage?
Lo, the fair phantom, melting to the wind,
Leaves but the sting of baffled bliss behind.
Whence is the joy that lights the sunken eye?
On, on, they speed their burning thirst to slake
In the blue waters of yon rippled lake,—
Or must they still those maddening pangs assuage
In the sand-billows of the false mirage?
Lo, the fair phantom, melting to the wind,
Leaves but the sting of baffled bliss behind.
Hope smiles again, as with instinctive haste
The panting camels rush along the waste,
And snuff the grateful breeze, that sweeping by
Wafts its cool fragrance through the cloudless sky.
Swift as the steed that feels the slacken'd rein
And flies impetuous o'er the sounding plain,
Eager as bursting from an Alpine source
The winter torrent in its headlong course,
Still hasting on, the wearied band behold
—The green oase, an emerald couch'd in gold!
And now the curving rivulet they descry,
That bow of hope upon a stormy sky,
Now ranging its luxuriant banks of green
In silent rapture gaze upon the scene:
His graceful arms the palm was waving there
Caught in the tall acacia's tangled hair,
While in festoons across his branches slung
The gay kossóm its scarlet tassels hung;
The flowering colocynth had studded round
Jewels of promise o'er the joyful ground,
And where the smile of day burst on the stream,
The trembling waters glitter'd in the beam.
The panting camels rush along the waste,
And snuff the grateful breeze, that sweeping by
Wafts its cool fragrance through the cloudless sky.
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And flies impetuous o'er the sounding plain,
Eager as bursting from an Alpine source
The winter torrent in its headlong course,
Still hasting on, the wearied band behold
—The green oase, an emerald couch'd in gold!
And now the curving rivulet they descry,
That bow of hope upon a stormy sky,
Now ranging its luxuriant banks of green
In silent rapture gaze upon the scene:
His graceful arms the palm was waving there
Caught in the tall acacia's tangled hair,
While in festoons across his branches slung
The gay kossóm its scarlet tassels hung;
The flowering colocynth had studded round
Jewels of promise o'er the joyful ground,
And where the smile of day burst on the stream,
The trembling waters glitter'd in the beam.
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It comes, the blast of death! that sudden glare
Tinges with purple hues the stagnant air;
Fearful in silence, o'er the heaving strand
Sweeps the wild gale, and licks the curling sand,
While o'er the vast Sahara from afar
Rushes the tempest in his wingéd car:
Swift from their bed the flame-like billows rise,
Whirling and surging to the copper skies,
As when Briareus lifts his hundred arms,
Grasps at high heav'n, and fills it with alarms;
In eddying chaos madly mixt on high
Gigantic pillars dance along the sky,
Or stalk in awful slowness through the gloom,
Or track the coursers of the dread simoom,
Or clashing in mid air, to ruin hurl'd,
Fall as the fragments of a shatter'd world!
Tinges with purple hues the stagnant air;
Fearful in silence, o'er the heaving strand
Sweeps the wild gale, and licks the curling sand,
While o'er the vast Sahara from afar
Rushes the tempest in his wingéd car:
Swift from their bed the flame-like billows rise,
Whirling and surging to the copper skies,
As when Briareus lifts his hundred arms,
Grasps at high heav'n, and fills it with alarms;
In eddying chaos madly mixt on high
Gigantic pillars dance along the sky,
Or stalk in awful slowness through the gloom,
Or track the coursers of the dread simoom,
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Fall as the fragments of a shatter'd world!
Hush'd is the tempest,—desolate the plain,
Still'd are the billows of that troublous main;
As if the voice of death had check'd the storm,
Each sandy wave retains its sculptured form:
And all is silence,—save the distant blast
That howl'd, and mock'd the desert as it pass'd;
And all is solitude,—for where are they,
That o'er Sahara wound their toilsome way?
Ask of the heav'ns above, that smile serene,
Ask that burnt spot, no more of lovely green,
Ask of the whirlwind in its purple cloud,
The desert is their grave, the sand their shroud.
Still'd are the billows of that troublous main;
As if the voice of death had check'd the storm,
Each sandy wave retains its sculptured form:
And all is silence,—save the distant blast
That howl'd, and mock'd the desert as it pass'd;
And all is solitude,—for where are they,
That o'er Sahara wound their toilsome way?
Ask of the heav'ns above, that smile serene,
Ask that burnt spot, no more of lovely green,
Ask of the whirlwind in its purple cloud,
The desert is their grave, the sand their shroud.
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THE SUTTEES.
SYNOPSIS.
The natural beauty of Hindoostan contrasted with its moral depravity.—Approach of a funeral procession.—Hymn of the Brahmins.—The widow.—Her early history.—The scene of the funeral pile.—Enthusiastic feelings of the victim.—The pile is fired.—Address to British benevolence in behalf of the benighted Hindoos.
O golden shores, primeval home of man,
How glorious is thy dwelling, Hindoostan!
Thine are these smiling vallies, bright with bloom,
Wild woods, and sandal-groves, that breathe perfume,
Thine, these fair skies,—where morn's returning ray
Has swept the starry robe of night away,
And gilt each dome, and minaret, and tow'r,
Gemm'd every stream, and tinted every flow'r.
But dark the spirit within thee;—from old time
Still o'er thee rolls the whelming flood of crime,
Still o'er thee broods the curse of guiltless blood,
That shouts for vengeance from thy reeking sod:
Deep-flowing Ganges in his rushy bed
Moans a sad requiem for his children dead,
And, wafted frequent on the passing gale,
Rises the orphan's sigh,—the widow's wail.
How glorious is thy dwelling, Hindoostan!
Thine are these smiling vallies, bright with bloom,
Wild woods, and sandal-groves, that breathe perfume,
Thine, these fair skies,—where morn's returning ray
Has swept the starry robe of night away,
And gilt each dome, and minaret, and tow'r,
Gemm'd every stream, and tinted every flow'r.
203
Still o'er thee rolls the whelming flood of crime,
Still o'er thee broods the curse of guiltless blood,
That shouts for vengeance from thy reeking sod:
Deep-flowing Ganges in his rushy bed
Moans a sad requiem for his children dead,
And, wafted frequent on the passing gale,
Rises the orphan's sigh,—the widow's wail.
Hark, 'tis the rolling of the funeral drum,
The white-rob'd Brahmins see, they come, they come,
Bringing, with frantic shouts, and torch, and trump,
And mingled signs of melancholy pomp,
That livid corpse, borne solemnly on high—
And yon faint trembling victim, doom'd to die.
The white-rob'd Brahmins see, they come, they come,
Bringing, with frantic shouts, and torch, and trump,
And mingled signs of melancholy pomp,
That livid corpse, borne solemnly on high—
And yon faint trembling victim, doom'd to die.
Still, as with measur'd step they move along,
With fiercer joy they weave the mystic song:
Eswara, crown'd with forests, thee they praise,
Birmha, to thee the full-ton'd chorus raise;
To ocean,—where the loose sail mariners furl,
And seek in coral caves the virgin pearl;
And to the source of Ganga's sacred streams,
Bright with the gold of Surya's morning beams,
Where on her lotus-throne Varuna sings,
And weeping Peris lave their azure wings:
They shout to Kali, of the red right hand,
Bid Aglys toss on high the kindled brand,
And far from Himalaya's frozen steep,
In whirlwind-car bid dark Paváneh sweep:
They chant of one, whom Azrael waits to guide
O'er the black gulf of death's unfathom'd tide;
Of her, whose spotless life to Seeva giv'n,
Bursts for her lord the golden gates of heav'n,
Of her,—who thus in dreadful triumph led,
Dares the unhallow'd bridal of the dead!
With fiercer joy they weave the mystic song:
Eswara, crown'd with forests, thee they praise,
Birmha, to thee the full-ton'd chorus raise;
204
And seek in coral caves the virgin pearl;
And to the source of Ganga's sacred streams,
Bright with the gold of Surya's morning beams,
Where on her lotus-throne Varuna sings,
And weeping Peris lave their azure wings:
They shout to Kali, of the red right hand,
Bid Aglys toss on high the kindled brand,
And far from Himalaya's frozen steep,
In whirlwind-car bid dark Paváneh sweep:
They chant of one, whom Azrael waits to guide
O'er the black gulf of death's unfathom'd tide;
Of her, whose spotless life to Seeva giv'n,
Bursts for her lord the golden gates of heav'n,
Of her,—who thus in dreadful triumph led,
Dares the unhallow'd bridal of the dead!
And there in silent fear she stands alone,
The desolate, unpitied, widow'd one:
Too deeply taught in life's sad tale of grief,
In the calm house of death she hopes relief,
For few the pleasures India's daughter knows,
A child of sorrow, nursed in want and woes.
Curst from the womb, how oft a mother's fear
In silence o'er thee dropt the bitter tear,
Lest a stern sire to Ganga's holy wave
Should madly consecrate the life he gave:
Cradled on superstition's sable wing
In joyless gloom pass'd childhood's early spring,
And still, as budded fair thy youthful mind,
None bade thee seek, none taught thee, truth to find:
Poor child! that never rais'd the suppliant pray'r,
Nor look'd to heav'n, and saw a Father there,
Untutor'd by religion's gentle sway
To love, believe, be happy, and obey.
Betroth'd in artless infancy to one
Thy warm affections never beam'd upon,
How shouldst thou smile, when ripe in beauty's pride
The haughty Rajah claim'd his destin'd bride?
A trembling slave, and not the loving wife,
Pass'd the short summer of thy hapless life;
And now to deck that bier, that pile to crown,
His fiery sepulchre becomes—thine own.
The desolate, unpitied, widow'd one:
205
In the calm house of death she hopes relief,
For few the pleasures India's daughter knows,
A child of sorrow, nursed in want and woes.
Curst from the womb, how oft a mother's fear
In silence o'er thee dropt the bitter tear,
Lest a stern sire to Ganga's holy wave
Should madly consecrate the life he gave:
Cradled on superstition's sable wing
In joyless gloom pass'd childhood's early spring,
And still, as budded fair thy youthful mind,
None bade thee seek, none taught thee, truth to find:
Poor child! that never rais'd the suppliant pray'r,
Nor look'd to heav'n, and saw a Father there,
Untutor'd by religion's gentle sway
To love, believe, be happy, and obey.
Betroth'd in artless infancy to one
Thy warm affections never beam'd upon,
How shouldst thou smile, when ripe in beauty's pride
The haughty Rajah claim'd his destin'd bride?
A trembling slave, and not the loving wife,
206
And now to deck that bier, that pile to crown,
His fiery sepulchre becomes—thine own.
And must it be, that in a spot so fair
Shall rise the madden'd shriek of wild despair?
This lovely spot, where glows in every part
The smile of nature on the pomp of art:
The banian spreads its hospitable shade,
The bright bird warbles in the leafy glade,
The matted palm, and wild anana's bloom,
The light pagoda, the majestic dome,
With emerald plains, and ocean's distant blue,
Cast their rich tints and shadows o'er the view.
But murder here must wash his bloody hand,
And superstition shake the flaming brand,
And terror cast around an eager eye
To look for one to save,—where none is nigh!
Far other incense than the breath of day
From that dark corpse must waft the soul away,
Far other moans than of the muffled drum
Herald the lingering spirit to its home:
Yes,—thou must perish; and that gentle frame
Must struggle frantic with the circling flame,
Constant in weal and woe, for death, for life,
The victim widow, as the victim wife.
Shall rise the madden'd shriek of wild despair?
This lovely spot, where glows in every part
The smile of nature on the pomp of art:
The banian spreads its hospitable shade,
The bright bird warbles in the leafy glade,
The matted palm, and wild anana's bloom,
The light pagoda, the majestic dome,
With emerald plains, and ocean's distant blue,
Cast their rich tints and shadows o'er the view.
But murder here must wash his bloody hand,
And superstition shake the flaming brand,
And terror cast around an eager eye
To look for one to save,—where none is nigh!
207
From that dark corpse must waft the soul away,
Far other moans than of the muffled drum
Herald the lingering spirit to its home:
Yes,—thou must perish; and that gentle frame
Must struggle frantic with the circling flame,
Constant in weal and woe, for death, for life,
The victim widow, as the victim wife.
Hoping, despairing,—friendless, and forlorn,
The death she may not fly, she strives to scorn:
Lists to the tale that bright-wing'd Peris wait
To waft her to Kalaisa's crystal gate,—
Thinks how her car of fire shall speed along,
Hail'd by high praises, and Kinnura's song,—
And upward gazing in a speechless trance,
Darts earnestly the keen ecstatic glance,
Till rapt imagination cleaves the sky,
And hope delusive points the way,—to die.
Who hath not felt,—in some celestial hour,
When fear's dark thunder-clouds have ceas'd to lour,
When angels beckon on the fluttering soul
To realms of bliss beyond her mortal goal,
When heavenly glories bursting on the sight,
The raptur'd spirit bathes in seas of light,
And soars aloft upon the seraph's wing,—
How boldly she can brave death's tyrant sting?
Thus the poor girl's enthusiastic mind
Revels in hope of blessings undefin'd,
Roams o'er the flow'rs of earth, the joys of sense,
And frames her paradise of glory thence:
For oft as memory's retrospective eye
Glanc'd at the blighted joys of days gone by,
How sadly sweet appear'd those smiling hours
When hope had strew'd life's thorny path with flow'rs,
How dark, and shadow'd o'er with fearful gloom,
The unimagin'd horrors of the tomb!
When she remembered all her joy and pain,
And in a moment liv'd her life again,
Each sorrow seem'd to smile, that frown'd before,—
Her cup of blessing then was running o'er,—
Days past in grief, beam'd now in hues of bliss,
Fancy gilt them,—but terror clouded this!
Yet swift her spirit, resolutely proud,
Scorn'd every hope, by mercy disallow'd:
The priests have long invok'd their idol god,
The murd'rous pile, his altar, thirsts for blood,—
A horrid silence summons to the grave,
All wait for her,—and none stands forth to save,
O shall she tremble now, nor die the same,—
Shall she not fearless rush into the flame?
From her dark eye she strikes the rising tear,
And firmly mounts the pile—a widow's bier.
The death she may not fly, she strives to scorn:
Lists to the tale that bright-wing'd Peris wait
To waft her to Kalaisa's crystal gate,—
Thinks how her car of fire shall speed along,
Hail'd by high praises, and Kinnura's song,—
And upward gazing in a speechless trance,
Darts earnestly the keen ecstatic glance,
Till rapt imagination cleaves the sky,
And hope delusive points the way,—to die.
Who hath not felt,—in some celestial hour,
When fear's dark thunder-clouds have ceas'd to lour,
208
To realms of bliss beyond her mortal goal,
When heavenly glories bursting on the sight,
The raptur'd spirit bathes in seas of light,
And soars aloft upon the seraph's wing,—
How boldly she can brave death's tyrant sting?
Thus the poor girl's enthusiastic mind
Revels in hope of blessings undefin'd,
Roams o'er the flow'rs of earth, the joys of sense,
And frames her paradise of glory thence:
For oft as memory's retrospective eye
Glanc'd at the blighted joys of days gone by,
How sadly sweet appear'd those smiling hours
When hope had strew'd life's thorny path with flow'rs,
How dark, and shadow'd o'er with fearful gloom,
The unimagin'd horrors of the tomb!
When she remembered all her joy and pain,
And in a moment liv'd her life again,
Each sorrow seem'd to smile, that frown'd before,—
Her cup of blessing then was running o'er,—
209
Fancy gilt them,—but terror clouded this!
Yet swift her spirit, resolutely proud,
Scorn'd every hope, by mercy disallow'd:
The priests have long invok'd their idol god,
The murd'rous pile, his altar, thirsts for blood,—
A horrid silence summons to the grave,
All wait for her,—and none stands forth to save,
O shall she tremble now, nor die the same,—
Shall she not fearless rush into the flame?
From her dark eye she strikes the rising tear,
And firmly mounts the pile—a widow's bier.
Instant, with furious zeal and willing hands,
Attendant Brahmins ply the ready brands;
And as the flames are raging fierce and high,
And mount in rushing columns to the sky,
Lest those wild shrieks, or pity's soft appeal
Should rouse one hand to save, one heart to feel,
Madly exulting in their victim's doom
They heap with fiendish haste her fiery tomb,—
Clash the loud cymbals, wake the trumpet's note,
Roll the deep drum, and raise the deafening shout,
Till in dread discord through the startled air
Rise the mixt yells of triumph and despair!
Attendant Brahmins ply the ready brands;
And as the flames are raging fierce and high,
And mount in rushing columns to the sky,
Lest those wild shrieks, or pity's soft appeal
Should rouse one hand to save, one heart to feel,
Madly exulting in their victim's doom
They heap with fiendish haste her fiery tomb,—
210
Roll the deep drum, and raise the deafening shout,
Till in dread discord through the startled air
Rise the mixt yells of triumph and despair!
Britain, whose pitying hand is stretch'd to save
From despot's iron chain the writhing slave;
Where freedom's sons, at wild oppression's shriek
Feel the hot tear bedew the manly cheek,—
Where the kind sympathies of social life
Sweeten the cup to one no more a wife,
Where mis'ry never pray'd nor sigh'd in vain,—
Shall India's widow'd daughters bleed again?
Let wreaths more glorious deck Britannia's head
Than theirs, who fiercely fought, or nobly bled,
Wreaths such as happy spirits wear above,
Gemm'd with the tears of gratitude and love,
Where palm and olive, twin'd with almond bloom,
Tell of triumphant peace and mercy's rich perfume:
And ye, whose young and kindling hearts can feel
The prayer of pity fan the flame of zeal,
Trace the blest path illustrious Heber trod,
And lead the poor idolator to God!
Thus, in that happy land, where nature's voice
Sings at her toil, and bids the world rejoice,
No guiltless blood her paradise shall stain,
No demon rites her holy courts profane,
No howl of superstition rend the air,
No widow's cry, no orphan's tear, be there,—
India shall cast her idol gods away,
And bless the promise of undying day.
From despot's iron chain the writhing slave;
Where freedom's sons, at wild oppression's shriek
Feel the hot tear bedew the manly cheek,—
Where the kind sympathies of social life
Sweeten the cup to one no more a wife,
Where mis'ry never pray'd nor sigh'd in vain,—
Shall India's widow'd daughters bleed again?
Let wreaths more glorious deck Britannia's head
Than theirs, who fiercely fought, or nobly bled,
Wreaths such as happy spirits wear above,
Gemm'd with the tears of gratitude and love,
Where palm and olive, twin'd with almond bloom,
Tell of triumphant peace and mercy's rich perfume:
And ye, whose young and kindling hearts can feel
The prayer of pity fan the flame of zeal,
211
And lead the poor idolator to God!
Thus, in that happy land, where nature's voice
Sings at her toil, and bids the world rejoice,
No guiltless blood her paradise shall stain,
No demon rites her holy courts profane,
No howl of superstition rend the air,
No widow's cry, no orphan's tear, be there,—
India shall cast her idol gods away,
And bless the promise of undying day.
212
A CARMEN SÆCULARE FOR CHRISTIAN ENGLAND.
ON THE PATTERN AND IN THE METRE OF THAT FOR HEATHEN ROME BY HORACE.
Holy Creator, ruler of the kingdoms,
Glory of earth and heaven, the Almighty,
Thou to be prais'd and worshipp'd never ceasing,
Hear us, Jehovah!
Glory of earth and heaven, the Almighty,
Thou to be prais'd and worshipp'd never ceasing,
Hear us, Jehovah!
While as in days of innocence aforetime
We with the choral voice of supplication
Cry to the one great Spirit who beholds us,
Save, we beseech Thee!
We with the choral voice of supplication
Cry to the one great Spirit who beholds us,
Save, we beseech Thee!
May the bright sun, thy day-bestowing servant,
And at whose setting blushes modest even,
Still as he beams successive o'er the nations,
Favour old England:
And at whose setting blushes modest even,
Still as he beams successive o'er the nations,
Favour old England:
213
Kindly may nature, providence approving,
Bless our homes with increase, and the matrons
Gently relieving, give us noble sons and
Virtuous daughters.
Bless our homes with increase, and the matrons
Gently relieving, give us noble sons and
Virtuous daughters.
Rivet the golden links of happy wedlock,
And be the social sympathies unbroken,
While on her lord the wedded wife depending,
Smiles for him only.
And be the social sympathies unbroken,
While on her lord the wedded wife depending,
Smiles for him only.
Still against sect and heresy protesting,
Nursing her babes with motherly affection,
Loving to all, and tender, may the Church be
Faithful and holy:
Nursing her babes with motherly affection,
Loving to all, and tender, may the Church be
Faithful and holy:
And if Omniscience, never to be alter'd
In its decrees, be destiny presiding,
May Britain, by that destiny protected,
Prosper in greatness.
In its decrees, be destiny presiding,
May Britain, by that destiny protected,
Prosper in greatness.
Pour on us kindly seasons, that abundant
Be the rich fruits of mother earth, and healthy
Still be the gales that waft us o'er the ocean
Conquerors ever!
Be the rich fruits of mother earth, and healthy
Still be the gales that waft us o'er the ocean
Conquerors ever!
214
Hear us, Redeemer, hear us, ever-blessed!
Hear, thou that dwellest infinite in splendour,
Hear, thou that always lovest to be gracious,
Rise and be with us!
Hear, thou that dwellest infinite in splendour,
Hear, thou that always lovest to be gracious,
Rise and be with us!
If yet thou smilest favouring on England,
If yet the rose, the thistle, and the shamrock,
Form a sweet garland offer'd on thine altar,
Keep us united.
If yet the rose, the thistle, and the shamrock,
Form a sweet garland offer'd on thine altar,
Keep us united.
Let not the thief, or murderer infest us,
Let not the base incendiary be near us,
Let not the foul adulterer pollute us,—
Spare us from evil:
Let not the base incendiary be near us,
Let not the foul adulterer pollute us,—
Spare us from evil:
Bring up the youth in modesty and virtue,
Grant to old age tranquillity and wisdom,
Give the glad sons of Britain health and honour,
Greatness and plenty.
Grant to old age tranquillity and wisdom,
Give the glad sons of Britain health and honour,
Greatness and plenty.
May British mercy more than British valour
Gain from the world its laurel and its olive,
Till over all her enemies triumphant
Glories Britannia!
Gain from the world its laurel and its olive,
Till over all her enemies triumphant
Glories Britannia!
215
Help her to rule her own rebellious children,
That the wide West may honour and uphold her,
Aid her to spread the banner of protection
Over her conquests:
That the wide West may honour and uphold her,
Aid her to spread the banner of protection
Over her conquests:
Save from intestine murmurings and discord,
Criminal sloth, and infidel compliance,
Scatter the curse of national rejection
Brooding above us:
Criminal sloth, and infidel compliance,
Scatter the curse of national rejection
Brooding above us:
Let open faith, integrity, and firmness,
Primitive truth, and piety, and prudence,
Loyal content, and patriotic virtue,
Quickly returning,
Primitive truth, and piety, and prudence,
Loyal content, and patriotic virtue,
Quickly returning,
Crown us with blessings, though we be unworthy,
Fill us with mercies forfeited, and rescue
From bitter hate and scorn among the Gentiles
Protestant Zion.
Fill us with mercies forfeited, and rescue
From bitter hate and scorn among the Gentiles
Protestant Zion.
Friend of the needy, pity and relieve them:
Prosper our arts, and sciences, and commerce;
All that can bless and beautify a nation,
Ever be Britain's!
Prosper our arts, and sciences, and commerce;
All that can bless and beautify a nation,
Ever be Britain's!
216
Long as the world rejoices in thy favour,
Holding it up, Omnipotent,—let England,
Let Caledonia, with her sister Erin,
Queen of the nations,
Holding it up, Omnipotent,—let England,
Let Caledonia, with her sister Erin,
Queen of the nations,
Reign, and be strong, acknowledging thy mercy;
Hear us in choral voice of supplication,
Who now invoke thy succour and thy blessing,
Father Almighty!
Hear us in choral voice of supplication,
Who now invoke thy succour and thy blessing,
Father Almighty!
Yes, we accept the promise of thine answer,
Yes, we depend on pity for protection,
And upon God our confidence reposes,
Through the Redeemer.
Yes, we depend on pity for protection,
And upon God our confidence reposes,
Through the Redeemer.
| Geraldine (1838) | |