The martyr's triumph; Buried valley; and other poems

Front matter

CONGRESS

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Canto I

'All this is well; For this will pass away, and be succeeded By an auspicious hope, which shall look up With calm appearance to that blessed place Which all who seek may win, whatever be Their earthly errors, so they be aton'd.'

Manfred.

I

Voice of the viewless spirit ! that hast rung Through the still chambers of the human heart, Since our first parents in sweet Eden sung Their low lament in tears — thou voice, that art Around us and above us, sounding on With a perpetual echo, 'tis on thee, The ministry sublime to wake and warn ! — Full of that high and wondrous Deity, That call'd existence out from Chaos' lonely sea ! 2

II

Voice that art heard through every age and clime, Commanding like a trumpet every ear That lends no heeding to the sounds of Time, Seal'd up, for ay, from cradle to the bier ! That fallest, like a watchman's through the night, Round those who sit in joy and those who Aveep, Yet startling all men with thy tones of might — O voice, that dwellest in the hallow'd deep Of our own bosom's silence — eloquent in sleep !

III

That comest in the clearness of thy power, Amid the crashing battle's wild uproar, Stern as at peaceful midnight's leaden hour ; That talkest by the ocean's bellowing shore, When surge meets surge in revelry, and lifts Its booming voice above the weltering sea ; That risest loudly mid the roaring cliffs, And o'er the deep-mouth'd thunder goest free, E'en as the silver tones of quiet infancy !

IV

Spirit of God ! what sovereignty is thine ! Thine is no homage of the bended knee ; Thou hast of vassalage no human sign ; Yet monarchs hold no royal rule like thee ! Unlike the crowned idols of our race, Thou dost no earthly pomp about thee cast, Thou tireless sentinel of elder days ! — Who, who to Conscience doth not bow at last, Old Arbiter of Time — the present and the past !

V

Thou wast from God when the green earth was young, And man enchanted rov'd amid its flowers, When faultless woman to his bosom clung, Or led him through her paradise of bowers ; Where love's low whispers from the Garden rose, And both amid its bloom and beauty bent, In the long luxury of their first repose ! When the whole earth was incense, and there went Perpetual praise from altars to the firmament.

VI

O, being of the sky ! — could I declare Thy majesty of birth — thy proud descent — The image of the glorious thou didst bear, When God's first bow above creation bent ; Could I proclaim some story of thy power, Or wake some long forgotten note again, That thrill'd the listener in some happier hour, My humble lyre perchance might yield a strain, Which, tho' a weary one, had not been struck in vain.

VII

Lo ! then, I hail thee in the first pure home Of unpolluted man — of him, who bow'd Under the arches of this high blue dome, And saw a worship in the sea and cloud ! Who, like a monarch, with an eagle glance, And aspirations royal, unconfin'd, Trode the large realm of his inheritance ; Of man ! that creature of the Eternal Mind — Art's last perfection — by Omnipotence designed !

VIII

Why kneels he on the broad and quivering earth, And pours his volumed spirit out in prayer, If the Divinity claim not its birth, Its unbought power, and noble lineage there ! What can he ask, to whom a world is given ? Why kneels he till his long locks veil his brow — The privileg'd and proud ! — the child of Heaven ! 'Tis no idolatry that sways him now, But the deep voice of duty bids him bless and bow !

IX

He walks while morn is gathering in the sky, Up through the wilderness of clouds and dew ; And the World's worship breaks upon his eye, In service grand, perpetual, and new. He sees the kindling of the elements ; And on his bounding bosom's glad surprise Comes a strange awe, undreamt-of and intense ! His heart goes out in praises, and he cries In wonder and in joy throughout his Paradise !

X

Then in the deep, deep sabbath of the noon, When from the heated hills there wavering goes A summer incense up, and the bow'd bloom Recoils beneath the withering repose, He passes to the shade of mountain dell, Mid clustering bees, and herds, a panting throng. And casts him by some leaf-embosom'd well — His faint lips move in low unutter'd song, And silent thankfulness bides on him — deep and long.

XI

He walks again, when evening like a cloud Bows down in shadow from the wooded hills, And night steals onward in her starry shroud, And her bright company the concave fills ; He hears them quiring thro' the unfathom'd arch Of the great sky — the silver crowns they wear, Pouring a ceaseless lustre round their march ! Then go the vesper chant, and joyous prayer Up from his leaping soul, like birds — for God is there !

XII

His life is all devotion. Winds and stars, With music and with beauty, come around And minister unto him. The golden bars Of Heaven are loos'd, and peerless sight and sound Lap his delighted sense. Above, he hears ' In reason's ear' the constellations call, Each to her bright-ey'd sister — while the spheres Proclaim the Father that hath fashion'd all, The shining and the joyful that surround the ball !

XIII

No book is open to his wilder'd gaze, Full of strange tales and antiquated lore, His nights to people, and harass his days ; No page, o'er which he fruitlessly shall pore ; But the illumin'd volume of the skies, Stamp'd in eternal characters is there ! Outspread forever, and unchang'd it lies, Rich in the wondrous lessons that it bare, Fire yet the teeming globe was hung amid the air. 2*

XIV

He reads — he ponders — he beholds the lines, Sublimely simple, bright with the command To listen and adore. Th' unbounded mines Of a wide mercy open round the wand, Which its great Author waves above the mind Of Earth's first children. Would ye know, like these, The revelation from the holiest fount ? go, wind Your way, companionless, mid hills and trees — Under the sailing stars, and by the sounding seas !

XV

He wanders where the flowers, with silent breath, By secret fountains bend in reverence ; Their glorious bloom yet unacquaint with death, But pouring to the air their hoarded scents. He asks — who rear'd ye in these lonely ways, To scatter beauty thro' the forest wild 1 And lo ! the answer of perpetual praise ! New fragrance gathers on the evening mild — He passes mid its sweets, instructed like a child !

XVI

He gets him to the mountains — the old towers That lift them yet around the peopled land ; Whereon the tempest-monarch sits and lowers ; The giants of the earth — the ancient band! He asks ; why loom ye thro' that cloudy veil With shaggy sides, and forehead bald and riven ! And from those mighty statues, cas'd in mail, Already the unchang'd response is given ! Behold! — in silent prayer, their summits point to Heaven !

XVII

He questions the loud winds, at eventide, When they lift up their voices with a shout, As if some spirit from the darkness cried, And bade the storms to revelry come out ! He asks — why sweep ye thro' the hollow sky 1 Whence come ye 1 — whither go ? — and at the word, An answer stoopeth o'er him from on high — The anthem of the winds ! — sublimely heard Down in earth's deepest dells — where every leaf is stirr'd !

XVIII

He calls upon the pinion'd clouds to stay Upon their trackless course, and answer him ; Why sail ye on your far and solemn way, And with your shadowy pomp day's glory dim 1 But lo ! the broad-winged couriers of their God Answer in thunder as they wheel above, Making the ever-during hills to nod ; Or, lighting on the tir'd world like a dove, Tell, in the whispering rain, their messages of love.

XIX

Then to the broad blue bosom of the sea, Just heaving in creation's morning time, And dancing to the white shore joyously, To the dulce music of its measur'd chime, He turns with uptbrown arms, and flashing brow ! ' O, ocean, many-voiced ! untried profound ! Tell me, to what old sceptre dost thou how — With all thy thronging waters, and the sound As of ten thousand victor armies trampling round !'

XX

He listens — and a voice as from the caves Of the unsearched ocean upward swells, And in the mingled tongues of all its waves, Its deep-ton'd tale of adoration tells ; ' My worship goeth up from day to day, And up, from age to age, shall still ascend To the great Infinite whom I obey ! The chorus of my billows, as they bend, Rejoicing, from mid sea to earth's remotest end ! '

XXI

Then to the host that gleams above his head ; The starry eyes that sentinel the world ; That through the Heavenly harmony still shed New beauty on a universe unfurl'd, Once more he would appeal. With brow uprais'd, He standeth dumb beneath their loveliness ! No word — no breath ! — but stricken and amaz'd, He feels within the eloquent excess, And, taught of all the elements, kneels down to bless.

XXII

This is the still small voice ! — the voice that first Bore witness unto man in solitude ; That spoke thro' nature, when in prime she burst Pregnant with praise upon a world all good ! This is the voice of Conscience, that began To teach him in his wandering, and tell The warning word of duty to lost man ; Filling his bosom as a fountain well, Guarded for ay, in power, by some enchanting spell !

XXIII

Prayer was her first command. The teeming globe Was full of it ; and should mistaken man Gather his silence round him like a robe, And doubt between a blessing and a ban ! Should the divinity that sprang to earth, And walk'd its gardens with a charter'd power, Forget its thankfulness for such a birth, While praise ascended from the frailest flower That threw its brilliant beauty on Time's natal hour !

XXIV

As yet no discord sends its sullen knell Over the spirit's beautiful repose ; But oft as mellow evening comes to tell Of day well spent, or oft as morning goes On its high journey thro' the firmament, Man turns him to the chamber of his rest, With heart reproachless and with brow unbent — Calm with the peaceful conscience of the blest, Among whose thronging thoughts comes no unwelcome guest !

XXV

But lo ! the hour of trial — the rash hand Of woman has pluck'd down the threaten'd doom, And Cain goes forth with the eternal brand — His early glory chang'd to endless gloom ! And while his burning curse illumes the path Of death and desolation he shall tread, A voice is round him like a voice of wrath, And horrid spectres flit about his head, Turning night's very darkness hideously red.

XXVI

And this is Conscience — this the very voice That whisper'd him to prayer in elder time, For his vast heritage of boundless joys, When the wide universe was in its prime ; This is the voice now rising in the tone Of loud rebuke above Man's work of wo ! The magic of its morning music gone — The tuneful harp-strings shatter'd at a blow, O'er which, henceforth, alone, harsh echoings shall go.

XXVII

Ah ! who shall dare a Presence stern as this, That comes unbidden on us, like the shapes That from the murky palaces of Dis Visit the troubled dreamer. And it breaks Like a perpetual phantom on the sight Of passing generations. The first sin That touch'd the erring spirit with a blight, At the same point let the tormentor in, That o'er the stricken heart stern monarchy should win !

XXVIII

Then Passion, with her dismal wings outspread, Flies like a fiend above the wreck she's made, Fulfilling oft her offices of dread, And oft alas ! in answering blood obey'd ; There, at her side, th' rebuking angel goes, Grasping her victim yet in triumph warm, And in the voice that first on Eden rose, While a new majesty surrounds her form, Speaks with the thunder's clearness thro' the spirit's storm !

XXIX

Thus thro' the ages of recorded time, Has this lone monitor abode with us, Unconquer'd and unconq'rable ; and crime, Crowned or crownless, feels the bitter curse Of its upbraiding. Wisdom, that of old Grew drunk and niadden'd with the joys of sense, And walk'd amid her palaces of gold, Turn'd from her gilded glory with offence, And call'd but ' vanity' earth's best inheritance.

XXX

So he that travel'd in the lowly train Of that unearthly Messenger, whose way Was heralded by light that ne'er shall wane, By stars , and shoutings of the sons of day — That brother of the band of Gallilee, When he denied Him in the hall of doom, Him who was Lord of all the earth and sea, ' Wept bitterly,' and strait went out in gloom, To join the elements in wailing round his tomb.

XXXI

And he, the traitor — that in humble garb Sat with his Master when he break the bread, How feels he in his soul the rankling barb ! How starts he at a voice that wakes the dead ! While the earth trembles and the veil is rent, And buried men come up, a quick despair The lost disciple maddening forth has sent — His brain with serpents coil'd, and bosom bare, To launch the unsilenc'd spirit to the wandering air !

XXXII

Again, in later time, behold the king, Sated with splendor, wearily lay down The sceptre and the ball, as some poor thing, And as a hated one his care-worn crown ! See him to cloister'd cell with cowl go in, Bidding the pomp that follows him farewell, No longer thinking solitude a sin,

(1) But the confessional where he shall tell

Spain's monarch frailties o'er by lonely book and bell

XXXIII

Turn then to Scotland's Glamis — he who quails As the weird sisters beckon him to blood ; See how the spirit-startled tyrant pales

(2) Before ill-starr'd Dunsinane's waving wood ! And Britain's murtherous king — at dreamy nigh Behold him from his couch in terror bound, Dashing thick phantoms from his guilty sight, And crying hoarsely to the battle sound,

As tho' long buried foes his guarded tent surround.

XXXIV

And thus through all the world. The meanest slav In whom the image of his God is veil'd, Who seeks, thro' crime the felon's fated grave, And sinks at last, unknown and unbewail'd — He smites his bosom on the gallows tree, And shrieks of warning from his bold offence, To the last battling with his agony ! Lo ! the same voice comes in rebukings thence, As marks the monarch's prayer of splendid penitence

XXXV

Thus rules the conscious spirit o'er our life, In certain retribution of deep wo For all the dark deeds mingling with the strife, As on the common pilgrimage we go. Thus from a speedy trial, at a bar From which no summons issueth in vain, We falter forth, condemn'd to wander far, Perhaps for years, o'er the dull earth again, With hearts doom'd never to be tenantless of pain.

XXXVI

But ah ! a nobler office waits it now, Than curse and condemnation. It comes up, Like the remembrance of some valiant vow, Into the high place of the soul. The cup, That first was rais'd to God and Liberty Was hallow'd by its presence — and the arm, Bar'cl o'er Religion's altar by the Free, Nerv'd by its holy voice, as by a charm On the devoted champions round it, stern and calm '

XXXVII

O soldiers of the cross ! who like to ye Who wag'd the mighty warfare of the Lord ! The hope ye fought for was Eternity — - Your shield was Sanctity, and Truth your sword ! Not the first heroes of the bravest band That ever swept to glory, can compare With ye who trode o'er Europe's waken'd land, Rousing Rome's sleeping lion from his lair, And heralding your faith, as trumpets, to the air ! 3

Xxxviii

Fathers of Freedom ! ye have bound your brows With a triumphant garland, verdant still ! With that undying bloom that only grows On old Jerusalem's most holy hill ; The iron bands ye burst — the prize ye won, The flush of sacred victory ye bore, Shall be remember'd till all Time is done ; ' And with the memory, blessing shall come o'er All hearts, in thankfulness outpour'd, from shore tc shore.

XXXIX

I sing not of thy fame, O mailed helm, That rung in fight on Syria's battle plain, And girdled brows that flash'd from every realm (3) Where the warm. hermit held his fever'd reign ! Not ye, ye warriors of the lance and lyre, Who on the Holy City pour'd from far, As to the lighting of some gorgeous pyre ; Your heartless pomp alas ! was vain to her — 'Twas but the splendid funeral of the Sepulchre !

XL

Your's was a struggle made mid gold and gems ; Kindled by minstrel tale and wild romance ; Where Kings clos'd onward in their diadems, England's young champions, and the flower of

France ; Where giant Knighthood bore the envied palm, Mid tilt and tournament, and plumy sea, And Superstition, with her visions warm, Call'd many a warrior to the bended knee, To penance and to vows, mid love and chivalry.

XLI

And tho' your armies travers'd like a cloud, Charg'd with the volleying thunder, the blue sea, And burst upon the crescent deep and loud, 'Twas an unholy dream that prompted ye To trample on that shore. Alas ! for all The proud and banner'd pageantry ye bore, There still was bondage vile — the spirit's thrall, (4) As in the Roman's triumph-train of yore There went the Dacian slave, with galling chains bent o'er !

XLIL O no ! a nobler field was yours to win, Than that made consecrate by banner'd wars ; To holier ranks your valiant did press in ; A holier hope was yours, ye conquerors ! Ye rose at Freedom's clarion voice ; ye rose, And girded on diviner panoply Than earth had yet beheld. The long repose Of the great deep of Nature broke, and ye Marshall'd the sons of men on to their native sky !

XLIII

The world had slept in shadow. The long years Went heavily and haplessly away ; Crime was absolv'd by gold — could prayers and tears Plead with her then her bloody course to stay ? Power trampled on the heart — the altar side Where Pilgrim Faith in dimness rais'd her hand, To bless and cheer the weary and the tried, Was shook and shatter'd by the lawless band, ' With conscience wide as hell,' that withering trode the land.

XLIV

The world had slept in shadow. But behold ! The darkness rent — a silver trump is heard — And the deep-volum'd clouds are backward roll'd, And heaving empires, like the sea, are stirr'd, When the winds stoop upon it. There ascends A cry from out the nations, that appals The sternest one o'er crucifix that bends, Within the temple of his dimmest walls, As from the mountain tops, from land to land it calls.

XLV

It is the cry of giant men, up-springing Under the waking sky — aloud and free ! Their sunder'd chains and bars about them ringing, As they emerge to light and liberty ! The Liberty of God — the light of mind — The panting Spirit's freedom — all are theirs! No earthly laurels to their brows they bind, But each that finer flush of glory bears, Which the high-purpos'd soul and destiny declares.

XLVI

They hear the Ghastener's voice, bidding awake To watch, to pray, to suffer, and to die ; The Bible to their belted bosoms take, And lead the van to immortality. They see new hope and promise offer'd there, And march, the marshall'd witnesses of power ! Not with the pomp which earthly victors wear, But in the moral strength of that great hour, That o'er the heaving land like Israel's cloud did tower !

XLVII

Henceforth no rest forever ! But a joy Shines ceaseless round the Christian's pilgrimage : To his bold breast he takes his idol boy, And points him to that Heaven-illumin'd page ; And — ' there, when to the sullen tomb I go, My brave first born' he cries, ' at night kneel down, And let your spirit like a fountain flow To the great God of Israel, who will own And bless you, when earth's last best Comforter has flown.'

XLVI1I.

Thus e'er the sleeping energies of man, First broke the indignant mandate of the soul. And lo ! the unshrinking who defied the ban Of an arm'd world, and drain'd the martyr's bowl, Went to sublime reward ; but as they rose, And wav'd from closing clouds their dim farewell, There sank a sterner, deadlier repose Round those on whom the parted mantle fell ; The silence of deep night before the trumpet's swell !

THE MARTYR'S TRIUMPH.

CANTO II Son of Earth !

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power. I know thee for a man of many thoughts, Fatal and fated in thy sufferings ; I have expected this — what wouldst thou with me ? 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not ; But all things swim around me — and the earth Heaves as it were beneath me —

Fare thee well

Manfred.

I.

To England's isle there came, in early time,

While yet the Roman eagle hover'd there,

A persecuted man. A warmer clime

Had brown'd his cheek, but his calm brow was

fair; And thought, in meek and pallid beauty, sat In fixedness upon him. A deep eye Gleam'd from the shelter of his shadowy hat, And glanc'd full often to the stormy sky, Where th' up-gathering company of clouds went by.

II.

O'er sea and hill and valley he had fled, Long days and nights, a sad and weary way ; And oft he wish'd him with the sainted dead, When at the eve by pilgrim fount he lay, Or when by holy cross he knelt in prayer, Under the flooding light of yonder dome, And thought upon the curse that drove him there — A hearth all desolate — a ruin'd home, And all the thousand woes that bade him forth to roam.

III.

He had seen sorrow. Not that long decay Of the sweet flowers of life that round us bloom, So slow, that, tho' departed, yet they stay, In the still incense of their early tomb ; Not in the quiet fading of the light Of Hope's stars one by one — in solitude ; But in the blasting gloom of sudden night ; In his heart's blossoms crush'd by hands o'er-rude, Where all he lov'd — his blest, his beautiful, had stood.

IV.

The best-loved and the beautiful ! — the wife That grew unto his bosom — and there died ! The creature that charm'd sorrow from his life, And mov'd about him a perpetual bride ; The mother of his children — all that God In mercy gives to mortals, he had seen In horror gather'd to the reeking sod, And Persecution's ban-dogs, loud and lean, Howl'd o'er the wreck of all his altar-home had been.

V.

But he saw good in all. He drank the cup As proffer'd by a father — and was still ; One look around — and then he lifted up His voice in smother'd wail, and cried — ' Thy will, O God, be done ;' then bow'd upon their graves, And took his pilgrim staff, and fainting fled, Unheedingly, o'er mountain lands and waves, Making with want and wo his lonely bed, And his companions sole, the memories of the dead.

VI.

He fled, from country and from kin estrang'd ; The victim of a hard and heathen hate ; But with a waken'd hope, and spirit chang'd — For lo ! he now to God was dedicate. The blessed Bible was the charm he bore ; The ' unknown' deities forever spurn'd, While to the simple crucifix he wore, Oft as his eye of humble faith was turn'd, " With a new flame of life his bosom's altar burn'd.

VII.

So with uncertain step he journey'd on, Oft turning inward to some friendly dell, Where the kind shade fell on him, tired and wan, Or by deserted shrine, or holy well ; For still they track'd him forth from day to day, Drawn by his cassock rude and restless eye — Hunting the pilgrim like a beast of prey, With frequent curse and loud insulting cry, Oft rousing him from hurried dreams, again to fly !

VIII.

'Twas now that shadowy time when evening stole To the low music of the falling leaves, Over the solemn earth. The Wanderer's soul Was troubled as an ocean, when it heaves After pursuing storms have swept it o'er, And call'd unto its deeps. He look'd around, Dusted by toil — with weary travel sore, And bending lowly to the dewy ground Broke with his vesper prayer that solitude of sound.

IX.

Was it an answering voice that floated out Into the night wind — falling on his ear Like the far chorus of the song or shout 1 Slowly his fever'd brow is raised to hear ; Then to his tottering staff once more he clings, And as the heavy air his temple fans, Nerv'd with despair along the path he springs, And there, with panting frame, and lifted hands, Before a low-brow'd gate, and humble pile he stands.

X.

Now speed thee, stranger ! He hath enter'd in. Waiting no word of welcome — and behold ! Around him rose the sculptur'd shrines of sin, And o'er him darkning clouds of incense roll'd ; No voice — no sound — save the departing steps Of hurrying feet — as tho', the offering done, The votaries hasten'd to the curtain'd depths Of their unholy temple. — It was won ! And there, amidst its rites, stood Sorrow's stricken son!

XI.

And yet he turn'd not — fled not — he had been Too long to sights and sounds of death allied — The blasting things of life too oft had seen To cower in fear — the tortur'd and the tried ! He firmer grasp'd the talisman he wore, And while the censer veil'd him like a cloud, He bow'd his head upon that rocky floor, And there, forth from a pilgrim's lowly shroud, Ascended God's first sacrifice — he pray'd aloud !

XII.

And not unheard. For gliding to his side Stood one of wavering faith, and guarded mien, In whom a better spirit strove with pride, And on whose cloudy temples might be seen Those deepen'd lines — the ravages of thought — The waste spots of old care, that come with years, When earth's best beauty is remember'd not, And memory her Hydra head uprears, And the far future swells — a fount of bitter tears !

XIII. ' Who art thou V — sudden on the prayerful broke — As sudden to his feet the pilgrim sprung — ' Shelter' — he cried — nor other word he spoke, But on his host with asking gaze he hung. Long while he scann'd him with an answering eye — His vestment rude — and sandals soil'd and worn, And his lip curl'd, at length, inquiringly — 'Know'st thou — thou wretched heir of wrath and scorn ! [borne!'

Thy steps, a Christian priest to heathen halls have

XIV.

' Shelter and mercy' was the quick response — ' Rest for the Pilgrim — secret cell and wall, And he who gave to yonder starry fonts This night their glory, shall repay thee all ; My hearth was desolated — and I fled Upon a path of blood — beset with woes — My hopes are buried — all — my lov'd ones dead — And round my failing footsteps howl my foes ; O, then, for one short hour — protection — and repose !'

XV.

The Wanderer's head is bare — and his bent frame Hung forward as to catch the coming tone ; And o'er the listener mantling fast there came A deep, triumphant flush. Was mercy flown 1 — Were curses mustering with the mounting blood Which that high brow so eloquently dyed 1 Or was it blest compassion, like a flood, Bearing those godless barriers on its tide, That had still holier assaults so long defied 1

XVI.

It was the heart's fast victory, whose light Pour'd on its conquering way. Yes — even there, Where his cold idols glimmer'd thro' the night, The Heathen melted at the pilgrim's prayer ; Quick tears of penitence and pity shone, In tribute to his sad and stirring tale ; He look'd upon the laden and the lone, And thus with spirit bursting from the mail Of indurating years, spoke to the Pilgrim pale.

XVII. 1 Thou hast prevail'd — this portal welcomes thee' — He grasp'd the sinking wanderer as he spake — ' For, as I read thy lineaments, I see A face that o'er me night on night doth break, With a prophetic shadow ; welcome in, Son of the sorrowful ! here, neither ban Nor bolt of foe thy solitude shall win ; I will not call thee brother — but a man — A victor proud indeed ! — welcome thou tried and wan !'