Livingstone in Africa

Front matter

LIVINGSTONE IN AFRICA.

BY

THE HON. RODEN NOEL.

Preface

There is a disposition among some contemporary critics to debar the Poet from contemporary subjects. One critic alleges these to be essentially unpoetical. Another—more skilled in delicate distinctions, and priding himself on the adroitness with which, as it were, by a dexterous turn of the wrist, he can cause the fine edge of them to wound, without vulgarly and directly thrusting—might prefer to say, apropos of each writer in turn who chooses such themes, that "at any rate this writer has not shown how contemporary subjects may be made poetical"—which remark, however, the poet, if he be a poet, can afford to treat simply as a piece of impertinence. He will have adapted his workmanship, arrangement, and mode of expression to the nature of his subject-matter. Perchance the problem of conciliating superfine collegians, or light skirmishers detached from their main body in the shape of certain "irresponsible reviewers," and at the same time satisfying intelligent readers of poetry in general—unephemeral critics, who are beyond the passing fashion of a clique—may be a problem well-nigh as insoluble as that of perpetual motion. But if so, a poet should be prepared with contempt and defiance only for the former. To me I confess it appears that Past and Present are equally poetical, when regarded and treated by a poet—equally unpoetical when regarded and treated by a mere versifier—though I am far from saying that every particular time is fully as poetical as any other. But the present time seems by no means deficient in that respect. No age is heroic to its valet-de-chambre; and every age has many valets-de-chambre. If there is danger from vulgar and debasing associations, and from fragmentary nearness, in the Present, which has not yet "orbed into the perfect star," there is equal danger from remoteness in the Past—few imaginations being indeed adequate satisfactorily to realize very different conditions of life and thought. The name of little flutterers, whose inanimate remains are strewn along the avenue that leads to the Temple of Fame, is Legion; but pseudo-classical and pseudo-mediæval versifiers are surely not inadequately represented among them. Some indeed have failed in poetically representing what passed under their eyes, because the eyes of the soul were wanting—the Poet's Second sight. Moreover, the genius of some true poets has proved more at home in those rarer, yet still to them living, regions of the Past. I do not think the age of Chaucer was much more poetical than the age of Victor Hugo and Tennyson: but Chaucer contrived to see and represent his age poetically: and though, perhaps, Tennyson's greatest works have dealt with ideal, romantic, or classical themes, he has shown himself master also in setting contemporary life to music. If Shakspeare wrote Julius Cæsar, he also wrote Henry VIII.; and Hamlet is essentially modern. Dante does not appear to have thought his own age unpoetic, though himself the master of ideal or spiritual creations. Dante, and Milton, set the dominant theologies of their own day to music; while Dante is full of allusions to passing events. Homer did not endeavour to reproduce classically correct imitations of the poems he may have read in Egyptian papyri. Gama, the hero of Camoens's epic, was still alive when the poet was a boy; and Camoens himself took part in adventures similar to those which he relates—indeed he contrives to relate what was actually happening in the Lusiad itself. Dryden wrote of Contemporary Politics; Pope sang the Rape of the Lock; Byron sang contemporary life in Childe Harold and Don Juan; Wordsworth also in some of his greatest poems. So did Campbell, Gray, and Goldsmith at their best—while Scott, if he sang of chivalry, sang at least of Scotland. The greatest work of Goethe is distinctly modern; so are the works of Hugo and De Musset. Spenser, Chatterton, Landor, and Keats, on the other hand—may one not add Mr. Browning?—breathe more freely in alien, or ideal, atmospheres; but then they do themselves breathe there; they do not merely simulate the accents of those who once did so.

That events of our own time may be treated poetically has been proved by our greatest poetess, Mrs. Browning; although, partly from the fact that England as a nation has withdrawn herself more and more from active participation in events of cosmopolitan interest, our writers of verse have not recently invited attention to contemporary themes; while studious readers have seemed disposed to discourage such attempts. But two or three genuine poets have quite lately made successful efforts to break through a somewhat vulgar, prosaic, and discreditable apathy—though it is one no doubt on which our fashionable petite culture very much plumes itself. In America we have, for instance, Longfellow and Walt Whitman; while in England we have not only Arthur Clough, and R. Buchanan, but also Mr. Swinburne, who wrote recently the "Songs before Sunrise." These poets at all events have proved that they do not, from feeling their own impotence, desire to insult their Mother-Age, and charge her with all the responsibility of a defect, which after all may not be of quite cosmical urgency. More recently still, Mr. Alfred Austin seems to have comically disproved his own somewhat juvenile criticism on the futility of the age, and the consequent inevitable futility of its poets, by himself writing a really fine poem on contemporary events, "Rome or Death."

However, in the following work I have the so much desiderated advantage of remoteness—remoteness, if not in time, at least in place. Africa is a long way off; Cook's tourists do not go to Ujiji; and both men and nature in Africa are very different from what they are immediately around us—if that be an advantage. My object has been to sing the modern Explorer—suggesting, dimly it may be, the Explorer or Seeker in a wider sense. In an oasis of the Sahara, and other remote regions, a poem on this subject dawned on me. It is a subject peculiarly modern, peculiarly English, and as I believe peculiarly poetical; one destined, moreover, to be always interesting. Even the most jaded student, to whom life and nature as he sees them are "flat, stale and unprofitable," must (one would fancy) be interested in the records of exploration that are published from time to time by great travellers. At any rate young persons, and persons young-hearted, though no longer young in years, are appealed to in my poem. I have done my best: for its shortcomings, I must appeal to the indulgence of such sympathetic readers as these. If I shall have been enabled to impart to them any measure of elevated enjoyment, I shall be satisfied. The Explorer in Africa, a most ancient, till yesterday almost unknown land; North of which lies Egypt; South of which lies Ethiopia, and all her still half-hidden marvels! the very regions of earthly mystery; yet how profoundly and pathetically human after all in their strange disclosures!

Poets used to sing of heroes, and great actions. I do not know why they should now only spin subtle cobwebs out of their own insides. Nor, however, do I know how long a period must elapse, according to the dogmas of "culture," before a mere dead man may, (by virtue of mischievous worshipping and myth-making propensities unfortunately inherent in our race,) be considered as fairly canonized—elevated to the dignity of "a hero." But for my part, I used to think Livingstone a true hero while he was alive; and my opinion of him is only not changed now that he is dead. Our two Florences, Florence Nightingale, and Florence Lady Baker, moreover, appear to me to be heroines—though both of them (one is glad to know) are still alive. Nor should those brave exploring ladies, the Dutch Miss Tinnés, be forgotten here. At any rate, the figure of David Livingstone admirably fills the shadowy, but colossal outlines of the Explorer.

I have endeavoured to represent his life, adventures, character and aims, with the accuracy of fact; though in one instance I have imagined a scene characteristic of a phase of African experience, which would otherwise have remained unillustrated; but this is a kind of experience which Livingstone might easily have passed through personally; and of course I have exercised a privilege of selection. The scene of the first Cantos is laid at Ujiji on Lake Tanganyika; where Livingstone has been driven back by the malice or cowardice of some who followed him, when on the eve, as he believed, of solving for ever those grand problems of geography, which have engaged the world's attention from earliest ages.

He has arrived ill, worn-out, aged, destitute; to find the goods on which he depended dissipated by the rascal to whom they had unfortunately been entrusted; and he could, (suffering as he was from his old disease, dysentery,) hardly have held out much longer, had not Mr. Stanley so gallantly and unexpectedly relieved him. (1871). I imagine him sitting on the open verandah of his tembé, looking eastward, as Stanley describes him; while evening deepens, and then night—the night preceding Stanley's arrival. I suppose that—like those constellations, with which he is so familiar—the salient features of his whole life pass successively before him in his solitude; while he meditates at leisure upon the people and scenes he has witnessed; wonders what people and scenes are yet to be divulged for him; speculating, moreover, on those long-vexed, fascinating problems, suggested by history, geography, and science, in connection with his beloved continent. But his chief concern—though he takes a very humane and broad interest in all—is the future of the people, among whom he has so long lived: he is a profoundly sincere Christian missionary—a philanthropist in the best and widest sense—with heart bleeding for all the ignorance, darkness, and misery, which he sees around him; thirsting to devise the best possible means for the salvation, enlightenment, and civili of the races. Not Wilberforce, Clarkson, Buxton, Lincoln, or "Uncle Tom's Cabin," have done more for the slave than David Livingstone. He seems to have possessed also an extraordinary power of sympathizing with and personally influencing the natives, with whom he came in contact.

This is a man of the old heroic type: a grand personality, like those of Xavier, Mazzini, Garibaldi, Bellot, Boss, Parry, Franklin, Stephenson, Watt, Mungo Park; who exhibits, in a peculiarly fascinating phase of modern life, the heroic energy, and skilful perseverance in combating gigantic difficulties; partly from ideal and humane ends—to serve God and Man—partly for the mere sake of combating those difficulties themselves. God is not tired of choosing and providing such natures, when He has a great work for them to do: indeed He provides also many obscurer workers, with natures as noble, whom He in His own way rewards. Are not men like Henry Martyn, and Bishop Patteson; with other men and women, whose names remain hidden from the world; members of this heroic army? Do we indeed lack heroes?

In Canto VI. I relate the relief of Livingstone by Stanley; in Canto VII. Livingstone's death; and the wonderful transport of his remains by faithful followers, to the everlasting honour of a despised race; finally, his honoured funeral in the grand cathedral of his own land. It remains that I express my obligations to the works of great African travellers—Speke and Grant, Baker, Burton, Shhweinfurth, Du Chaillu, Winwood Reade, Moffatt, Stanley, Bowdich, Petherick—and to the correspondents of daily papers, who described the funeral.

Prologue

Our tuneful students, with dull downward eyes, Measuring one another in a dream, Lisp, "how the pigmy time degenerates! "Where are your 'heroes?' we distinguish none: "Your 'heroes' have no literary style! "Lo! we discern some dust upon their feet." They, poring on impalpable pale shades Of vanish'd years, fantastically warble, Singing sweet songs of phantoms in a cloud! Delicate warblers, fleeting as a cloud!

I lay my wreath upon a hero's grave. There let it bloom; or let it wither there!

Canto I

T sun is sinking over Africa; And under shadowy native eaves reclines A traveller upon a fur-strewn floor; One whom no years' ignoble rust, but high And holy toil have wasted; bearded grey, In wayworn English garb he seems array'd; His shoulders bow'd as from a life's long burden; His rude wan countenance profoundly scarr'd With noble ruin wrought by Love and Sorrow. Reclined against the dwelling's claybuilt wall, His falcon eyes explore the moonèd East.

Athwart a wondrous land that lies before Slow shadow steals; o'er all the fervid palms, Broadleaved banana, leaf-seas infinite, Hoar unfamiliar stupendous forms Of that primæval forest African: Slowly the shadow with declining day Fades rainbow splendour of the forest far, And drowns imperial purple of the hills In one phantasmal all-confounding gloom.

Ye mountains,1 hiding undiscover'd worlds, So mused in spirit the lone wanderer, I hunger till I pass your mighty doors, And lay my hand upon the Mystery! African Andes, vast, inviolate, Crown'd with the cloud, robed round with sombre forest, Whose virgin snow no human feet profane Have swept, but only the wild eagle's wing, Of old your ghost on Rumour's shadowy breath Wander'd abroad, O Mountains of the Moon! And still ye are no more than a dim name:

Of old the Egyptian from your loins, that loom Large in far realms of Rumour, drew the Nile. Ye, couchant o'er the sultry continent, Seem the great guardian Lion of Africa, Who, from primæval ages all alone, Silently stern, confronts a crimson dawn Over fair Indian seas, with face that towers Sunward, supreme; feeling a warm moist breath, Faint with perfume, turn crystals of soft snow Among the terrors of his icy mane; Or, where the stature of his giant frame Declines to westward, feeling the breath change To rain within the hollows of his heart. All, thundering down abrupt convulsed ravines, Scarr'd in precipitous rugged flanks of stone, Feed wide Nyanzas; whether there be twain, Or many waters, these engender thee, Wonderful Nile! And yet I deem that I Shall find thy parent springs remoter still. Lualaba, with his tributary rivers, And lilied lakes his loving bounty fills!

Yes, some have told me, and I well believe, There are four fountains clear and deep as day, Welling unfathomable, perennial Among low hills as yet unseen, the last Subsiding roll, it may be, of one range Named of old Rumour, Mountains of the Moon. Behold the shrine of living waters! Here From one immense rock-temple stream the Souls Of many lands and nations, whispering In dim enchanted caverns; East and North, And West emerging, sunny wings unfold: Shouting they plunge in joyous waterfalls, To roll a priceless silver all abroad, Each to his Ocean, whose illustrious names Are Congo, Nile, and long Leeambayee! Whom Mother Ocean, in her awful arms Absorbing, ever engendereth anew, Gendering a holy Cycle evermore.

When royal Sun his Oriental bride, India's Ocean, fiercely fervent woos,

While She dissolves in his delightful love, What time He fronts earth's equatorial zone On his way North to Cancer, then the waters Rise in a tide of life upon the lands, Lying athirst and barren in his blaze.

… My soul, unbow'd in face of failing years, Though Hope may falter from unwearying Hindrance of blind baseborn vicissitude, Swears to resolve the alluring Mystery, At whose cold feet our mightiest have fallen, Yearning to find the sacred Source, and die; Ifor have prevail'd; but if the Lord allow, I and my fellow-labourers will prevail!

I seek the birth of that immortal River, Who bears great Egypt in her watery womb, Who nursed the world's prime empire on her bosom; And Moses, more illustrious than all Pharoahs, her earth-enthralling conquerors, Throned in their golden hundred-gated Thebes,

Tomb'd in hoar wonder of the pyramids. At thy most holy source, primæval Nile! The Greek drank wisdom; yea, in solemn halls Of Memphis, in columnar stone forests Of mighty Karnac, rich with hieroglyph, And pictured symbol and weird shapes of Gods. Only the solar beam, the Obelisk, Now from green palms and verdure and pure rills, As then from sacred fountains of the Sun, In olden time, in Heliopolis, Still points with mystic granite flame to Heaven! This mighty gnomon of a sun-dial Moved then a shadow, lengthening among signs Upon a porphyry or a brazen floor, Among blithe forms of Pharaonic time; Now o'er young corn and red anemone! There came Pythagoras to learn the lore Of stars, and suns, and gods, and human souls; There Moses mused, well-nourish'd on rich stores Of priests and sages; communing with truth, And in his spirit sifting dust from gold. Only this one most ancient monument

Stands of thy glory, Heliopolis! Earliest seat of learning, where the seer, Illustrious Plato, came from Academe, And sweet Ilissus; fairest star of all The fair young band who follow'd one wise master. Here a stone astrolabe explored the night, Measuring solemn wanderings of stars. Here laboratory furnaces were glowing; While some astrologer with mystic rites Drew horoscopes, or cast nativities: But then our Earth, who in her equable And proud obeisant motion round the sun Hath in twice ten millennial periods Her inclined axle measurably perturb'd, Lean'd otherwise her pole among the skies; Another Polestar ruled the mariner; Another Ocean shrined thy radiance, O Christian constellation of the Cross! While otherwhere in every tranquil night, Among cool calm abysses of pure space, Shone Sirius, Arcturus, and Orion.

Here too the holiest Child of mortal race Rested in humble guise with a pure Mother.

At thy most holy source, primæval Nile! The Greek drank wisdom; learn'd a Dædal art, That in his pure white light of genius, In that pellucid æther of his clime, Among pure breezes of Castalian hills, And delicate unrobed consummate forms Of radiant heroes, bloom'd in glorious Marble immortal gods for all the world.

Here he beheld the blazon'd Zodiac On loftiest firmaments of broad hewn stone Within dim fanes, or solemn tombs of kings; Stupendous vaulted chambers in the heart Of flame-hued mountain, silently aware With populous imagery of men and gods, Hawk or ram-headed; on wide wall and ceiling Beheld a constellate celestial river Meandering around a crystal sphere, And navigated in twelve lives of Moons

By that resplendent Father of the Kings; Kings lying here in glory, all embalm'd, And jewell'd o'er with slumbering talismans, Asleep in their immense sarcophagi.

Yonder, on burning sands of Libya, Unmoved the tranquil-featured Sphinx beheld Abraham, Homer, Solon, all the wise Of every clime, who came, and saw, and wonder'd; Who pass'd, leaving a heritage to man; Beheld dissolving dynasties of Kings, And all their people, pageant-like unroll'd Before His face; they, with o'erwhelming pillars Of desert sand before the whirlwind's breath, Pass'd in loud pomp, and were not any more; The silent Sphinx regarding, as to-day, Beyond them all, serene Eternity!

There that colossal Memnon, while the Nile Pour'd like another morning all around Sweet life-engendering waters musical, Murmur'd melodious salutation,

When first Aurora, his celestial mother, Smiled sweet upon him from the Orient.

Fresh from fierce thunder of the cataracts, Tortured among dark demon-blocks of stone Fireborn, divine Nile smoothes his ruffled flow; Lingers a tranquil, a celestial lake To embrace fair Philæ, Philæ, fairest isle Of all earth's islands! fringed with mirror'd palm, And lotos blossom on the crystalline Laving her bosom; she hath lotos blossom For capitals of her hypæthral fane, Quiet in heaven, tremulous in the river: Where, sundering flowing phantoms of the stars, Boats glide by night, aslant on broider'd sail, Freighted with youth, and love and loveliness: Balmy night breezes, all alive with song, Laughter, and rhythmic plashing of light oars, (While coloured lamp-lights lambent on the ripple Stream from fair vessel, or embower'd shore); Rustle tall fountain'd palms among the stars; As strange slim forms of a most ancient age

Land on pale quays of that so stately temple, Sonorous with a gorgeous ritual.— Now on a roofless column builds the stork! Here, they believe, slumbers a mighty god, Osiris, Love incarnate, and the Judge; Also the Solar orb, and sacred Nile; Who, with moon'd Isis and her little child, Shadoweth forth a triune Deity. His awful name none dare to breathe aloud: An oath avails to bind for evermore One who hath sworn "by Him that sleeps in Philæ."

Most ancient realm of all this ancient earth,2 Thought faints to sound thine hoar antiquity! Europe and Asia were not when thy form Brooded in solemn grandeur, as to-day, Over dark ocean! when Dicynodon, Ancestor of thy huge Leviathan, Ruled over mightier seas and estuaries; When melancholy vapours veil'd strange stars, Ere man's wan yearning unavailing eyes Awoke to wonder! ere the cataclysm

Rent all thy rocks, and summon'd forth the rivers When came the Negro?—and the dwindling Dwarf? I have found bones of immemorial age: Their living families surround me now!

Wilds more unknown than yonder ghostly Moon, Beyond the bounds of Earth! whose ruin huge Of awful mountain, Albategnius, Or Döerfel, whose abysses of dead gloom Herschel in his enchanter's glass reveal'd!

Africa! vast immeasurable Void, Where no imperial march of History Solemn resounds from echoing age to age! Haunt of light-headed fable and dim dream! To whose fierce strand the Heaven-shadowing bird, Enormous Roc, long deemed a wild romance, Was wont to fly of old from Madagascar!— In whose blue seas floats fragrant ambergris;

Whose shores are blushing corallines most rare, Where ocean-fairies wander mailed in gems, Silently gliding through the branching bowers While far inland strange palaces are piled Profusely with pure ivory and gold—3 No lynx-eyed peril-affronting pioneer, Since the beginning, until yesterday, Dared violate thy sultry somnolence, Couch'd, a grim lion in thine ancient lair; Sullenly self-involved, impenetrable! Or if one ever bearded and aroused, Thy winds have spurn'd his unrevealing dust! Yea, in thy fiery deserts, in the pomp Of lurid evenings, crimson, warm, like blood, Thou dost devour thine own dark children, crouch'd About thy cruel knees, dark Africa!

Canto II

Y mine are higher, holier purposes; For I will cleave this darkling continent, As with a sword of intellectual light; Lead these lost children to a living Father, And tell them of a Brother who has died. Yea, if my nature's weakness have rebell'd Against what seems the world's indifference; Men treading their unarduous wonted round Of common care, oblivious of mine, Who battle alone, afar from all; who waste, Ignobly sinking here in sight of goal, For bitter need of help I hoped from men, At leisure in their calm abounding homes; Bales for exchange or tribute; healing herbs; Wherewith to calm this fire within my veins, And tame the ravening hungry heathendom—

Thou knowest, O Lord, my prime solicitude Was for the work Thou hast to me unworthy Confided in Thy Providence unachieved,— And yet I know the Holiest never fails For lack of service; but allows to each The measure He in wisdom hath ordain'd.

For all the land is foul with monstrous wrong, And desolation of the sons of Hell. Surely the long long wail of human woe Ever ascends from all our earth to heaven! But here the mist of blind unending tears Hangs undissolving, and abolishes Yon very Life-Light from His shining halls, And hides the Father from his orphan'd sons. Hell is let loose; and jubilant cruelty Tortures a feeble lowly-witted race, Poor fallen outcast of humanity; Inflames the lurking salvage brute that haunts A wilding blood to fratricidal war, To thrall its very kindred, for the sport Of paler large-brain'd fiends, the common foe,

And glut their markets with the flesh of men. Shoot them and drown them! from convulsive arms Tear small sweet clinging babes, and fainting brides From lovers, who with unavailing life Stain them in falling, or themselves enslaved, Yoked, goaded, pinioned, tramp the burning wilds, To bleach with beast-gnawn bones the wilderness; Or huddled in a slaver's pestilent hold, Writhing and raving, rotting while alive, Are flung to gorge sleek monsters of the sea! Lo! in dusk offings of ensanguined seas, At sunset doth the torpid slaver droop Her guilty sail; while evil strangers brand Dark women on a golden strand with fire; Who are mute with endless woes unutterable! Nay! the long wail of wounded innocence Hath ne'er been squander'd on a voiceless Void! But every tear of every helpless child Sinks in a warm unfathomable Love: And armèd Righteousness awaits her hour, Albeit Her lightning slumber in the cloud. These human shambles shall be purged from blood:

This charnel of the world shall reek no more, Plague-spot of all the starry universe! For I will flash the light of Europe's eyes Full on the tyrant, till he quail and cower, And vanish, a mere snowflake in the sun. England, inviolate Ark of Freedom, launch Thy thunder as of old; and hurl them low! Fulfil thy mission! fallen heroes want Yonder in heaven their crown of blessedness, Till the last bondsman clasp unfetter'd hands O'er the last slaver, whelm'd beneath the wave!

But I abide until my task be done. And if they slay their mortal enemy, It is the Lord who calls, and it is well— When they had thought to murder; reft from me All I most cherish'd on a former day; Killing my converts, even the little ones, Or sweeping them into captivity; I said, "I am not less resolved than they: They do but save me wills and codicils!" I turn my face indeed, as they intend,

From this my labour of long years o'erthrown; And yet not homeward, baffled as they deem— For lo! my face is toward the world unknown, That seem'd almost the very world in sooth, "From whose dark bourne no traveller returns." I take the plunge, and I am lost in night! Lost to the life and tumult of mankind: No voice may reach me from the homes of men; No voice of mine may penetrate to them. Five times twelve moons have filled their horns and waned; My memory is failing from the world; Only a ghostly rumour murmurs low How one has seen a strange white wanderer, Somewhere inland; none certainly knows where; And one more rumour whispers, he is dead. Empires may rise and fall; great wars may thunder; And peace may follow war; and I not know, More than the drown'd who slumber in the sea— Yea, have they ruin'd me at Kolobeng? Behold I wrest from them all Africa!

For I will never cease from journeying, Until the length and breadth of all the land Shine forth illuminate from shore to shore! My life is one long journey; and I love Peril, and toil, and strange vicissitude; Exploring all the wonder of the world On sea and land; wonder for evermore; And all the marvellous miracle of man. I am urged ever by a restless ghost, And may not fold my hands in tranquil sleep. Yet when we have grown old, we want the glow Of our own generous children in their prime, Warming our twilight; they love thought for us, As we of old for them; their little ones Play, like a dear last dawn, around our age; And I too long to be at home again By the sweet firelight of my northern land! At Christmas-time, the room is bright with green, And far bells faintly peal athwart the snow: Then quiet firelight, wavering with soft sounds, Pleasantly ruddies gold and silver hair: But in the summer, little children sing

Anear a shimmer of slim aspen leaves, Fluttering with sound of summer rain. Ah! shall I never cease from journeying? Urged ever onward by a restless ghost, I may not fold my hands in pleasant sleep!

When I surmount some unfamiliar height, Behold! an alien realm mysterious Unroll'd in twilight! ghostly, drear, and wan; Stain'd with what seem huge bombs of shatter'd iron, Hurl'd from a weird infernal enginery. And then I muse what eerie living things Dwell far beyond among the mists of night— Whether the wanderer may wander on For ever in the waste, hearing no sound, Save of his own footfall; or yonder dwell Dark unimaginable human lives; Wearing what uncouth forms, allied to some Misshapen horrors of the forest wild— Weird startling mockery of immortal man; Shocking the soul with chill mistrustful fear,

And doubt of her pre-eminent destiny— Brutebrow'd, brutemaw'd, huge hirsute prodigies, Challenging with a vast appalling roar Whoso disturbs their monstrous monarchy! Dark unimaginable human lives, Ever alone in this most ancient realm, Immured in a stupendous sepulchre, Afar from man's tumultuous chariot-race Of sounding splendour; somnolent aware How the dull tide of dim inglorious years Moves ever foul and lurid with the scurf Of ruin'd blood, and gold, and scalding tears!

Some veer small restless, rambling, apelike eyes; Their clicking gibber mimics flittermice; A skeleton people plucking roots and berries For starved subsistence, grubbing shallow holes, Or sheltering in borrow'd dens disused… What people lies before me? some affirm That there be men sepulchred verily In subterranean chambers like the dead; Burrowing human moles, fleeing from light,

By their free choice, and immemorial Usage; though Rumour murmurs her wild tale Ever with a light head confusedly.

Shall I behold some dark terrific cave, Reeking with bats, and owls, and doleful things, High among crags of a precipitous mountain, Strewn with fresh bones of men, that hideous ghouls In human form, foul anthropophagi, Have gnawn for food; a loathsome den defiled With dripping human members, torn for meat? A desolate wind howls ever dolefully Around the dismal open mouth of hell, Howls like a murdered man's avenging soul! While among boulder-ruins of the mountain Climb beasts obscene, scenting a horrid feast! At night a thunder of great lions rolls, Rebellowing from basalt precipices: At night a fervour of infernal flame, With cruel yells of hellish revelry, Affronts pale stars; what time the unearthly fiends Grimy, and gash'd with knives, and foul with earth,

Squat mumbling bodies of lost travellers, Whom they decoying fell'd with monstrous clubs. But underneath the floor of their black vault Deepens a hollow murmur, far withdrawn Within the haunted heart of the dread mountain. It may be mutter'd wrath of slumbering fires; It may be secret waters wandering; But they believe it of another world; And shuddering pour libation to the god.