Part II

Part II

Sweet is the gloom of forest shades, Their pillar’d walks and dim arcades, With all the thousand flowers that blow, A waste of loveliness, below. To him whose soul the world would fly, For nature’s lonely majesty: To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes, To lover, lost in fairy dreams, To hermit, whose prophetic thought By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught, And, in the visions of his rest, Held bright communion with the blest: ’Tis sweet, but solemn! There alike Silence and sound with awe can strike. The deep Eolian murmur made By sighing breeze and rustling shade, And cavern’d fountain gushing nigh, And wild-bee’s plaintive lullaby: Or the dead stillness of the bowers, When dark the summer-tempest lowers; When silent nature seems to wait The gathering thunder’s voice of fate; When the aspen scarcely waves in air, And the clouds collect for the lightning’s glare-- Each, each alike is awful there, And thrills the soul with feelings high, As some majestic harmony.

But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced Each green retreat in breathless haste-- Young Ella--linger’d not to hear The wood-notes, lost on mourner’s ear. The shivering leaf, the breeze’s play, The fountain’s gush, the wild-bird’s lay-- These charm not now; her sire she sought, With trembling frame, with anxious thought, And, starting if a forest deer But moved the rustling branches near, First felt that innocence may fear.

She reach’d a lone and shadowy dell, Where the free sunbeam never fell; ’Twas twilight there at summer noon, Deep night beneath the harvest moon, And scarce might one bright star be seen Gleaming the tangled boughs between; For many a giant rock around Dark in terrific grandeur frown’d, And the ancient oaks, that waved on high, Shut out each glimpse of the blessèd sky. There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave, Ne’er to heaven’s beam one sparkle gave, And the wild flower, on its brink that grew, Caught not from day one glowing hue.

’Twas said, some fearful deed untold Had stain’d that scene in days of old; Tradition o’er the haunt had thrown A shade yet deeper than its own; And still, amidst th’ umbrageous gloom, Perchance above some victim’s tomb, O’ergrown with ivy and with moss, There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross, Which, haply, silent record bore Of guilt and penitence of yore.

Who by that holy sign was kneeling, With brow unutter’d pangs revealing, Hands clasp’d convulsively in prayer, And lifted eyes and streaming hair, And cheek, all pale as marble mould, Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold? Was it some image of despair Still fix’d that stamp of woe to bear? --Oh! ne’er could Art her forms have wrought To speak such agonies of thought! Those deathlike features gave to view A mortal’s pangs too deep and true! Starting he rose, with frenzied eye, As Ella’s hurried step drew nigh; He turn’d, with aspect darkly wild, Trembling he stood--before his child! On, with a burst of tears, she sprung, And to her father’s bosom clung.

“Away! what seek’st thou here?” he cried, “Art thou not now thine Ulric’s bride? Hence, leave me--leave me to await, In solitude, the storm of Fate; Thou know’st not what my doom may be, Ere evening comes in peace to thee.”

“My father! shall the joyous throng Swell high for me the bridal song? Shall the gay nuptial board be spread, The festal garland bind my head, And thou in grief, in peril, roam, And make the wilderness thy home? No! I am here with thee to share All suffering mortal strength may bear; And, oh! whate’er thy foes decree, In life, in death, in chains, or free-- Well, well I feel, in thee secure; Thy heart and hand alike are pure!”

Then was there meaning in his look, Which deep that trusting spirit shook; So wildly did each glance express The strife of shame and bitterness,-- As thus he spoke: “Fond dreams, oh hence! Is this the mien of Innocence? This furrow’d brow, this restless eye-- Read thou this fearful tale, and fly! Is it enough? or must I seek For words, the tale of guilt to speak? Then be it so--I will not doom Thy youth to wither in its bloom; I will not see thy tender frame Bow’d to the earth with fear and shame. No! though I teach thee to abhor The sire so fondly loved before; Though the dread effort rend my breast, Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest! Oh! bitter penance! thou wilt turn Away in horror and in scorn; Thy looks, that still through all the past Affection’s gentlest beams have cast, As lightning on my heart will fall, And I must mark and bear it all! Yet though of life’s best ties bereaved, Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived!

“I linger--let me speed the tale Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail. Why should I falter thus to tell What heaven so long hath known too well? Yes! though from mortal sight conceal’d, There hath a brother’s blood appeal’d! He died--’twas not where banners wave, And war-steeds trample on the brave; He died--it was in Holy Land-- Yet fell he not by Paynim hand; He sleeps not with his sires at rest, With trophied shield and knightly crest; Unknown his grave to kindred eyes, --But I can tell thee where he lies! It was a wild and savage spot, But once beheld--and ne’er forgot! I see it now--that haunted scene My spirit’s dwelling still hath been; And he is there--I see him laid Beneath that palm-tree’s lonely shade. The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh Bears witness with its crimson dye! I see th’ accusing glance he raised, Ere that dim eye by death was glazed; --Ne’er will that parting look forgive! I still behold it--and I live! I live! from hope, from mercy driven, A mark for all the shafts of heaven!

“Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won My birth-right; and my child, my son, Heir to high name, high fortune born, Was doom’d to penury and scorn, An alien midst his fathers’ halls, An exile from his native walls. Could I bear this? The rankling thought, Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought; Some serpent, kindling hate and guile, Lurk’d in my infant’s rosy smile, And when his accents lisp’d my name, They woke my inmost heart to flame! I struggled--are there evil powers That claim their own ascendant hours? --Oh! what should thine unspotted soul Or know or fear of their control? Why on the fearful conflict dwell? Vainly I struggled, and I fell-- Cast down from every hope of bliss-- Too well thou know’st to what abyss!

“’Twas done!--that moment hurried by To darken all eternity. Years roll’d away, long evil years, Of woes, of fetters, and of fears; Nor aught but vain remorse I gain’d By the deep guilt my soul which stain’d. For, long a captive in the lands Where Arabs tread their burning sands, The haunted midnight of the mind Was round me while in chains I pined, By all forgotten, save by one Dread presence--which I could not shun. --How oft, when o’er the silent waste Nor path nor landmark might be traced, When slumbering by the watch-fire’s ray, The Wanderers of the Desert lay, And stars, as o’er an ocean shone, Vigil I kept--but not alone! That form, that image, from the dead, Still walk’d the wild with soundless tread! I’ve seen it in the fiery blast, I’ve seen it where the sand-storms pass’d; Beside the Desert’s fount it stood, Tinging the clear cold wave with blood; And e’en when viewless, by the fear Curdling my veins, I knew ’twas near! --Was near!--I feel th’ unearthly thrill, Its power is on my spirit still! A mystic influence, undefined, The spell, the shadow of my mind!

“Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on; One last farewell, and then begone! Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow, And let me read thine aspect now! No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed Heaven’s justice to my crime decreed. Slow came the day that broke my chain, But I at length was free again; And freedom brings a burst of joy, E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy. I thought upon my own fair towers, My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers, And in a father’s visions, press’d Thee and thy brother to my breast. --’Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet Recall the moment when we met? Thy step to greet me lightly sprung, Thy arms around me fondly clung; Scarce aught than infant seraph less Seem’d thy pure childhood’s loveliness. But he was gone--that son for whom I rush’d on guilt’s eternal doom; He for whose sake alone were given My peace on earth, my hope in heaven-- He met me not. A ruthless band, Whose name with terror fill’d the land, Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild Had reft the father of his child. Foes to my race, the hate they nursed, Full on that cherish’d scion burst. Unknown his fate.--No parent nigh, My boy! my first-born! didst thou die? Or did they spare thee for a life Of shame, of rapine, and of strife? Livest thou, unfriended, unallied, A wanderer lost, without a guide? Oh! to thy fate’s mysterious gloom Blest were the darkness of the tomb!

“Ella! ’tis done--my guilty heart Before thee all unveil’d--depart! Few pangs ’twill cost thee now to fly From one so stain’d, so lost as I; Yet peace to thine untainted breast, E’en though it hate me!--be thou blest! Farewell! thou shalt not linger here-- E’en now th’ avenger may be near: Where’er I turn, the foe, the snare, The dagger, may be ambush’d there; One hour--and haply all is o’er, And we must meet on earth no more. No, nor beyond!--to those pure skies Where thou shalt be, I may not rise; Heaven’s will for ever parts our lot, Yet, oh! my child! abhor me not! Speak once! to soothe this broken heart, Speak to me once! and then depart!”

But still--as if each pulse were dead, Mute--as the power of speech were fled, Pale--as if life-blood ceased to warm The marble beauty of her form; On the dark rock she lean’d her head, That seem’d as there ’twere riveted, And dropt the hands, till then which press’d Her burning brow, or throbbing breast. There beam’d no tear-drop in her eye, And from her lip there breathed no sigh, And on her brow no trace there dwelt That told she suffer’d or she felt. All that once glow’d, or smiled, or beam’d, Now fix’d, and quench’d, and frozen seem’d; And long her sire, in wild dismay, Deem’d her pure spirit pass’d away.

But life return’d. O’er that cold frame One deep convulsive shudder came; And a faint light her eye relumed, And sad resolve her mien assumed. But there was horror in the gaze, Which yet to his she dared not raise; And her sad accents, wild and low, As rising from a depth of woe, At first with hurried trembling broke, But gather’d firmness as she spoke. --“I leave thee not--whate’er betide, My footsteps shall not quit thy side; Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill, But yet thou art my father still! And, oh! if stain’d by guilty deed, For some kind spirit, tenfold need, To speak of heaven’s absolving love, And waft desponding thought above. Is there not power in mercy’s wave The blood-stain from thy soul to lave? Is there not balm to heal despair, In tears, in penitence, in prayer? My father! kneel at His pure shrine Who died to expiate guilt like thine, Weep--and my tears with thine shall blend, Pray--while my prayers with thine ascend, And, as our mingling sorrows rise, Heaven will relent, though earth despise!”

“My child, my child! these bursting tears, The first mine eyes have shed for years, Though deepest conflicts they express, Yet flow not all in bitterness! Oh! thou hast bid a wither’d heart From desolation’s slumber start; Thy voice of pity and of love Seems o’er its icy depths to move E’en as a breeze of health, which brings Life, hope, and healing, on its wings. And there is mercy yet! I feel Its influence o’er my spirit steal; How welcome were each pang below, If guilt might be atoned by woe! Think’st thou I yet may be forgiven? Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven? Oh! if it yet avail to plead, If judgment be not yet decreed, Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry, Till pardon shall be seal’d on high! Yet, yet I shrink!--Will Mercy shed Her dews upon this fallen head? --Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free Descend forgiveness, won by thee!”

They knelt--before the Cross, that sign Of love eternal and divine; That symbol, which so long hath stood A rock of strength, on time’s dark flood, Clasp’d by despairing hands, and laved By the warm tears of nations saved. In one deep prayer their spirits blent, The guilty and the innocent; Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth, Age, soil’d with every stain of earth, Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry, One sacrifice of agony. --Oh! blest, though bitter be their source-- Though dark the fountain of remorse, Blest are the tears which pour from thence, Th’ atoning stream of penitence! And let not pity check the tide By which the heart is purified; Let not vain comfort turn its course, Or timid love repress its force! Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand, To bear luxuriance o’er the land; Forbid the life-restoring rains To fall on Afric’s burning plains; Close up the fount that gush’d to cheer The pilgrim o’er the waste who trode; But check thou not one holy tear Which Penitence devotes to God!

Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne’er Was roused by huntsman’s bugle there-- So rude, that scarce might human eye Sustain their dread sublimity-- So awful, that the timid swain, Nurtured amidst their dark domain, Had peopled with unearthly forms Their mists, their forests, and their storms,-- She, whose blue eye of laughing light Once made each festal scene more bright; Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest, Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest, By torrent wave and mountain brow, Is wandering as an outcast now, To share with Lindheim’s fallen chief His shame, his terror, and his grief.

Hast thou not mark’d the ruin’s flower, That blooms in solitary grace, And, faithful to its mouldering tower, Waves in the banner’s place? From those gray haunts renown hath pass’d, Time wins his heritage at last; The day of glory hath gone by, With all its pomp and minstrelsy: Yet still the flower of golden hues There loves its fragrance to diffuse, To fallen and forsaken things With constancy unalter’d clings, And, smiling o’er the wreck of state, With beauty clothes the desolate. --E’en such was she, the fair-hair’d maid, In all her light of youth array’d, Forsaking every joy below To soothe a guilty parent’s woe, And clinging thus, in beauty’s prime, To the dark ruin made by crime. Oh! ne’er did heaven’s propitious eyes Smile on a purer sacrifice; Ne’er did young love, at duty’s shrine, More nobly brighter hopes resign! O’er her own pangs she brooded not, Nor sank beneath her bitter lot; No! that pure spirit’s lofty worth Still rose more buoyantly from earth, And drew from an eternal source Its gentle, yet triumphant force: Roused by affliction’s chastening might To energies more calmly bright, Like the wild harp of airy sigh, Woke by the storm to harmony! He that in mountain-holds hath sought A refuge for unconquer’d thought, A charter’d home, where Freedom’s child Might rear her altars in the wild, And fix her quenchless torch on high, A beacon for Eternity; Or they, whose martyr spirits wage Proud war with Persecution’s rage, And to the deserts bear the faith That bids them smile on chains and death; Well may they draw, from all around, Of grandeur clothed in form and sound, From the deep power of earth and sky, Wild nature’s might of majesty, Strong energies, immortal fires, High hopes, magnificent desires!

But dark, terrific, and austere, To him doth nature’s mien appear, Who midst her wilds would seek repose From guilty pangs and vengeful foes! For him the wind hath music dread, A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead; The forest’s whisper breathes a tone Appalling, as from worlds unknown; The mystic gloom of wood and cave Is fill’d with shadow’s of the grave; In noon’s deep calm the sunbeams dart A blaze that seems to search his heart; The pure, eternal stars of night Upbraid him with their silent light; And the dread spirit, which pervades And hallows earth’s most lonely shades, In every scene, in every hour, Surrounds him with chastising power-- With nameless fear his soul to thrill, Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still!

’Twas the chilly close of an autumn day, And the leaves fell thick o’er the wanderers’ way; The rustling pines, with a hollow sound, Foretold the tempest gathering round; And the skirts of the western clouds were spread With a tinge of wild and stormy red, That seem’d, through the twilight forest bowers Like the glare of a city’s blazing towers. But they, who far from cities fled, And shrunk from the print of human tread, Had reach’d a desert scene unknown, So strangely wild, so deeply lone, That a nameless feeling, unconfess’d And undefined, their souls oppress’d. Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl’d, Lay like the ruins of a world, Left by an earthquake’s final throes In deep and desolate repose-- Things of eternity whose forms Bore record of ten thousand storms! While, rearing its colossal crest In sullen grandeur o’er the rest, One, like a pillar, vast and rude, Stood monarch of the solitude. Perchance by Roman conqueror’s hand Th’ enduring monument was plann’d; Or Odin’s sons, in days gone by, Had shaped its rough immensity, To rear, midst mountain, rock, and wood, A temple meet for rites of blood. But they were gone, who might have told That secret of the times of old; And there, in silent scorn it frown’d, O’er all its vast coevals round. Darkly those giant masses lower’d, Countless and motionless they tower’d; No wild-flower o’er their summits hung, No fountain from their caverns sprung; Yet ever on the wanderers’ ear Murmur’d a sound of waters near, With music deep of lulling falls, And louder gush, at intervals. Unknown its source--nor spring nor stream Caught the red sunset’s lingering gleam, But ceaseless, from its hidden caves, Arose that mystic voice of waves.[199] Yet bosom’d midst that savage scene, One chosen spot of gentler mien Gave promise to the pilgrim’s eye Of shelter from the tempest nigh. Glad sight! the ivied cross it bore, The sculptured saint that crown’d its door: Less welcome now were monarch’s dome, Than that low cell, some hermit’s home. Thither the outcasts bent their way, By the last lingering gleam of day; When from a cavern’d rock, which cast Deep shadows o’er them as they pass’d, A form, a warrior form of might, As from earth’s bosom, sprang to sight. His port was lofty--yet the heart Shrunk from him with recoiling start; His mien was youthful--yet his face Had nought of youth’s ingenuous grace; Nor chivalrous nor tender thought Its traces on his brow had wrought Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye, But calm and cold severity, A spirit haughtily austere, Stranger to pity as to fear. It seem’d as pride had thrown a veil O’er that dark brow and visage pale, Leaving the searcher nought to guess, All was so fix’d and passionless.

He spoke--and they who heard the tone Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown. “I’ve sought thee far in forest bowers, I’ve sought thee long in peopled towers, I’ve borne th’ dagger of th’ Unknown Through scenes explored by me alone; My search is closed--nor toils nor fears Repel the servant of the Seers; We meet--’tis vain to strive or fly: Albert of Lindheim, thou must die!”

Then with clasp’d hands the fair-hair’d maid Sank at his feet, and wildly pray’d:-- “Stay, stay thee! sheath that lifted steel! Oh! thou art human, and canst feel! Hear me! if e’er ’twas thine to prove The blessing of a parent’s love; By thine own father’s hoary hair, By her who gave thee being, spare! Did they not, o’er thy infant years, Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears! Young warrior! thou wilt heed my prayers, As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs!”

But cold th’ Avenger’s look remain’d, His brow its rigid calm maintain’d: “Maiden! ’tis vain--my bosom ne’er Was conscious of a parent’s care; The nurture of my infant years Froze in my soul the source of tears; ’Tis not for me to pause or melt, Or feel as happier hearts have felt. Away! the hour of fate goes by: Thy prayers are fruitless--he must die!”

“Rise, Ella! rise!” with steadfast brow The father spoke--unshrinking now, As if from heaven a martyr’s strength Had settled on his soul at length: “Kneel thou no more, my noble child, Thou by no taint of guilt defiled; Kneel not to man!--for mortal prayer, Oh! when did mortal vengeance spare? Since hope of earthly aid is flown, Lift thy pure hands to heaven alone, And know, to calm thy suffering heart, My spirit is resign’d to part. Trusting in Him who reads and knows This guilty breast, with all its woes. Rise! I would bless thee once again, Be still, be firm--for all is vain!”

And she was still. She heard him not-- Her prayers were hush’d, her pangs forgot; All thought, all memory pass’d away, Silent and motionless she lay, In a brief death, a blest suspense Alike of agony and sense. She saw not when the dagger gleam’d In the last red light from the west that stream’d; She mark’d not when the life-blood’s flow Came rushing to the mortal blow; While, unresisting, sank her sire, Yet gather’d firmness to expire, Mingling a warrior’s courage high With a penitent’s humility. And o’er him there th’ Avenger stood, And watch’d the victim’s ebbing blood, Still calm, as if his faithful hand Had but obey’d some just command, Some power whose stern, yet righteous will He deem’d it virtue to fulfil, And triumph’d, when the palm was won, For duty’s task austerely done.

But a feeling dread and undefined, A mystic presage of the mind, With strange and sudden impulse ran Chill through the heart of the dying man; And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom breath, And it seem’d as fear suspended death, And nature from her terrors drew Fresh energy and vigour new.

“Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne’er Was conscious of a parent’s care; Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood’s years, Froze in thy soul the source of tears: The time will come, when thou, with me, The judgment throne of God wilt see-- Oh! by thy hopes of mercy, then, By His blest love who died for men, By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow, Avenger! I adjure thee now! To him who bleeds beneath thy steel, Thy lineage and thy name reveal. And haste thee! for his closing ear Hath little more on earth to hear-- Haste! for the spirit, almost flown, Is lingering for thy words alone.”

Then first a shade, resembling fear, Pass’d o’er th’ Avenger’s mien austere; A nameless awe his features cross’d, Soon in their haughty coldness lost.

“What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild, And bid them tell thee of their child! Ask the rude winds, and angry skies, Whose tempests were his lullabies! His chambers were the cave and wood, His fosterers men of wrath and blood; Outcasts alike of earth and heaven, By wrongs to desperation driven! Who, in their pupil, now could trace The features of a nobler race? Yet such was mine!--if one who cast A look of anguish o’er the past, Bore faithful record on the day When penitent in death he lay. But still deep shades my prospects veil; He died--and told but half the tale. With him it sleeps--I only know Enough for stern and silent woe, For vain ambition’s deep regret, For hopes deceived, deceiving yet, For dreams of pride, that vainly tell How high a lot had suited well The heir of some illustrious line, Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!”

Then swift through Albert’s bosom pass’d One pang, the keenest and the last, Ere with his spirit fled the fears, The sorrows, and the pangs of years; And, while his gray hairs swept the dust, Faltering he murmur’d, “Heaven is just! For thee that deed of guilt was done, By thee avenged, my son! my son!” --The day was closed--the moonbeam shed Light on the living and the dead, And as through rolling clouds it broke, Young Ella from her trance awoke-- Awoke to bear, to feel, to know E’en more than all an orphan’s woe. Oh! ne’er did moonbeam’s light serene With beauty clothe a sadder scene! There, cold in death, the father slept-- There, pale in woe, the daughter wept! Yes! she might weep--but one stood nigh, With horror in his tearless eye, That eye which ne’er again shall close In the deep quiet of repose; No more on earth beholding aught Save one dread vision, stamp’d on thought. But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid His deeper woe had scarce survey’d, Till his wild voice reveal’d a tale Which seem’d to bid the heavens turn pale! He call’d her, “Sister!” and the word In anguish breathed, in terror heard, Reveal’d enough: all else were weak-- That sound a thousand pangs could speak. He knelt beside that breathless clay, Which, fix’d in utter stillness, lay-- Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace, Each line of that unconscious face; Knelt, till his eye could bear no more Those marble features to explore; Then, starting, turning, as to shun The image thus by Memory won, A wild farewell to her he bade, Who by the dead in silence pray’d; And, frenzied by his bitter doom, Fled thence--to find all earth a tomb!

Days pass’d away--and Rhine’s fair shore In the light of summer smiled once more; The vines were purpling on the hill, And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still. There came a bark up the noble stream, With pennons that shed a golden gleam, With the flash of arms, and the voice of song, Gliding triumphantly along; For warrior-forms were glittering there, Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air; And as the tones of oar and wave Their measured cadence mingling gave, ’Twas thus th’ exulting chorus rose, While many an echo swell’d the close:--

“From the fields where dead and dying On their battle-bier are lying, Where the blood unstanch’d is gushing, Where the steed uncheck’d is rushing, Trampling o’er the noble-hearted, Ere the spirit yet be parted; Where each breath of heaven is swaying Knightly plumes and banners playing, And the clarion’s music swelling Calls the vulture from his dwelling; He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine! To his own fair woods, enclosing Vales in sunny peace reposing, Where his native stream is laving Banks, with golden harvests waving, And the summer light is sleeping On the grape, through tendrils peeping; To the halls where harps are ringing, Bards the praise of warriors singing, Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly, Joyous voices mingling sweetly; Where the cheek of mirth is glowing, And the wine-cup brightly flowing, He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!”

He came--he sought his Ella’s bowers, He traversed Lindheim’s lonely towers; But voice and footstep thence had fled, As from the dwellings of the dead, And the sounds of human joy and woe Gave place to the moan of the wave below. The banner still the rampart crown’d, But the tall rank grass waved thick around Still hung the arms of a race gone by In the blazon’d halls of their ancestry, But they caught no more, at fall of night, The wavering flash of the torch’s light, And they sent their echoes forth no more To the Minnesinger’s[200] tuneful lore, For the hands that touch’d the harp were gone, And the hearts were cold that loved its tone; And the soul of the chord lay mute and still, Save when the wild wind bade it thrill, And woke from its depths a dream-like moan, For life, and power, and beauty gone.

The warrior turn’d from that silent scene, Where a voice of woe had welcome been; And his heart was heavy with boding thought, As the forest-paths alone he sought. He reach’d a convent’s fane, that stood Deep bosom’d in luxuriant wood; Still, solemn, fair--it seem’d a spot Where earthly care might be all forgot, And sounds and dreams of heaven alone To musing spirit might be known.

And sweet e’en then were the sounds that rose On the holy and profound repose. Oh! they came o’er the warrior’s breast Like a glorious anthem of the blest; And fear and sorrow died away Before the full majestic lay. He enter’d the secluded fane, Which sent forth that inspiring strain; He gazed--the hallow’d pile’s array Was that of some high festal day; Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound, Flowers of all scents were strew’d around; The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh, Blest on the altar to smile and die; And a fragrant cloud from the censer’s breath Half hid the sacred pomp beneath; And still the peal of choral song Swell’d the resounding aisles along; Wakening, in its triumphant flow, Deep echoes from the graves below.

Why, from its woodland birthplace torn, Doth summer’s rose that scene adorn? Why breathes the incense to the sky? Why swells th’ exulting harmony? --And see’st thou not yon form, so light It seems half floating on the sight, As if the whisper of a gale, That did but wave its snowy veil, Might bear it from the earth afar, A lovely but receding star? Know that devotion’s shrine e’en now Receives that youthful vestal’s vow-- For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise, A jubilee of sacrifice! Mark yet a moment! from her brow Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow, Ere yet a darker mantle hide The charms to heaven thus sanctified: Stay thee! and catch their parting gleam, That ne’er shall fade from memory’s dream. A moment! oh! to Ulric’s soul, Poised between hope and fear’s control, What slow, unmeasured hours went by, Ere yet suspense grew certainty. It came at length. Once more that face Reveal’d to man its mournful grace; A sunbeam on its features fell, As if to bear the world’s farewell; And doubt was o’er. His heart grew chill: ’Twas she--though changed--’twas Ella still! Though now her once-rejoicing mien Was deeply, mournfully serene; Though clouds her eye’s blue lustre shaded, And the young cheek beneath had faded, Well, well he knew the form, which cast Light on his soul through all the past! ’Twas with him on the battle-plain, ’Twas with him on the stormy main: ’Twas in his visions, when the shield Pillow’d his head on tented field; ’Twas a bright beam that led him on Where’er a triumph might be won-- In danger as in glory nigh, An angel-guide to victory!

She caught his pale bewilder’d gaze Of grief half lost in fix’d amaze. Was it some vain illusion, wrought By frenzy of impassion’d thought? Some phantom, such as Grief hath power To summon in her wandering hour? No! it was he! the lost, the mourn’d-- Too deeply loved, too late return’d! --A fever’d blush, a sudden start, Spoke the last weakness of her heart; ’Twas vanquish’d soon--the hectic red A moment flush’d her check, and fled. Once more serene--her steadfast eye Look’d up as to Eternity; Then gazed on Ulric with an air, That said--the home of Love is there!

Yes! there alone it smiled for him, Whose eye before that look grew dim. Not long ’twas his e’en thus to view The beauty of its calm adieu; Soon o’er those features, brightly pale, Was cast th’ impenetrable veil; And, if one human sigh were given By the pure bosom vow’d to heaven, ’Twas lost, as many a murmur’d sound Of grief, “not loud, but deep,” is drown’d, In hymns of joy, which proudly rise To tell the calm untroubled skies That earth hath banish’d care and woe, And man holds festivals below!

[199] The original of the scene here described is presented by the mountain called the Feldberg, in the Bergstrasse:--“Des masses énormes de rochers, entassées l’une sur l’autre depuis le sommet de la montagne jusqu’à son pied, viennent y présenter un aspect superbe qu’ aucune description ne saurait rendre. Ce furent, dit-on, des géans, qui en se livrant un combat du haut des montagnes, lancèrent les uns sur les autres ces énormes masses de rochers. On arrive, avec beaucoup de peine, jusqu’au sommet du Feldberg, en suivant un sentier qui passe à côté de cette chaine de rochers. On entend continuellement un bruit sourd, qui parait venir d’un ruisseau au dessous des rochers; mais on a beau descendre, on se glissant à travers les ouvertures qui s’y trouvent, on ne découvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, dite Riesensäule, se trouve un peu plus haut qu’à la moitié de la montagne; c’est un bloc de granit taillé, d’une longueur de 30 pieds et d’un diamétre de 4 pieds. Il y a plus de probabilité de croire que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc une colonne pour l’ériger en l’honneur de leur dieu Odin, que de prétendre, comme le fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Romains aient eu le dessein de la transporter dans leur capitale. On voit un peu plus haut un autre bloc d’une forme presque carrée, qu’ on appelle Riesenaltar, (autel du géant,) qui, à en juger par sa grosseur et sa forme, était destiné à servir de piédestal à la colonnade susdite.”--Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin.

[200] Minnesingers, (bards of love,) the appellation of the German minstrels in the Middle Ages.

THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS.

Call it not loneliness to dwell In woodland shade or hermit dell, Or the deep forest to explore, Or wander Alpine regions o’er; For nature there all joyous reigns, And fills with life her wild domains:-- A bird’s light wing may break the air, A wave, a leaf, may murmur there; A bee the mountain flowers may seek, A chamois bound from peak to peak; An eagle, rushing to the sky, Wake the deep echoes with his cry; And still some sound, thy heart to cheer, Some voice though not of man is near. But he, whose weary step hath traced Mysterious Afric’s awful waste-- Whose eye Arabia’s wilds hath view’d, Can tell thee what is solitude! It is to traverse lifeless plains, Where everlasting stillness reigns, And billowy sands and dazzling sky Seem boundless as infinity! It is to sink, with speechless dread, In scenes unmeet for mortal tread, Sever’d from earthly being’s trace, Alone amidst eternal space!

’Tis noon--and fearfully profound, Silence is on the desert round; Alone she reigns, above, beneath, With all the attributes of death! No bird the blazing heaven may dare, No insect bide the scorching air; The ostrich, though of sunborn race, Seeks a more shelter’d dwelling-place; The lion slumbers in his lair, The serpent shuns the noontide glare. But slowly wind the patient train Of camels o’er the blasted plain, Where they and man may brave alone The terrors of the burning zone. --Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high, As a volcano, flame the sky; Shrink not, though as a furnace glow The dark-red seas of sand below; Though not a shadow, save your own, Across the dread expanse is thrown. Mark! where your feverish lips to lave, Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave! Urge your tired camels on, and take Your rest beside yon glistening lake; Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring, And fan your brows with lighter wing. Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide, Reflects the date-tree on its side-- Speed on! pure draughts and genial air, And verdant shade, await you there. Oh, glimpse of heaven! to him unknown That hath not trod the burning zone! Forward they press--they gaze dismay’d-- The waters of the desert fade! Melting to vapours that elude The eye, the lip, they vainly woo’d.[201]

What meteor comes? A purple haze Hath half obscured the noontide rays:[202] Onward it moves in swift career, A blush upon the atmosphere. Haste, haste! avert th’ impending doom, Fall prostrate! ’tis the dread Simoom! Bow down your faces--till the blast On its red wing of flame hath pass’d, Far bearing o’er the sandy wave The viewless Angel of the Grave.

It came--’tis vanish’d--but hath left The wanderers e’en of hope bereft; The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame. Faint with despondence, worn with toil, They sink upon the burning soil, Resign’d, amidst those realms of gloom, To find their deathbed and their tomb.[203]

But onward still!--yon distant spot Of verdure can deceive you not; Yon palms, which tremulously seem’d Reflected as the waters gleam’d, Along th’ horizon’s verge display’d, Still rear their slender colonnade-- A landmark, guiding o’er the plain The Caravan’s exhausted train. Fair is that little Isle of Bliss The desert’s emerald oasis! A rainbow on the torrent’s wave, A gem embosom’d in the grave, A sunbeam on a stormy day Its beauty’s image might convey! Beauty, in horror’s lap that sleeps, While silence round her vigil keeps.

Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid To slumber in th’ acacia shade: Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise Their aromatic breath diffuse; Where softer light the sunbeams pour Through the tall palm and sycamore; And the rich date luxuriant spreads Its pendant clusters o’er your heads. Nature once more, to seal your eyes, Murmurs her sweetest lullabies; Again each heart the music hails Of rustling leaves and sighing gales: And oh! to Afric’s child how dear The voice of fountains gushing near! Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams Of waving groves and rippling streams! Far be the serpent’s venom’d coil From the brief respite won by toil; Far be the awful shades of those Who deep beneath the sands repose-- The hosts, to whom the desert’s breath Bore swift and stern the call of death. Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade The freshness of the acacia shade, But gales of heaven your spirits bless, With life’s best balm--Forgetfulness! Till night from many an urn diffuse The treasures of her world of dews.

The day hath closed--the moon on high Walks in her cloudless majesty. A thousand stars to Afric’s heaven Serene magnificence have given-- Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame Shines forth eternally the same. Blest be their beams, whose holy light Shall guide the camel’s footsteps right, And lead, as with a track divine, The pilgrim to his prophet’s shrine! --Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu! Again your lonely march pursue, While airs of night are freshly blowing, And heavens with softer beauty glowing.

’Tis silence all: the solemn scene Wears, at each step, a ruder mien; For giant-rocks, at distance piled, Cast their deep shadows o’er the wild. Darkly they rise--what eye hath view’d The caverns of their solitude? Away! within those awful cells The savage lord of Afric dwells! Heard ye his voice?--the lion’s roar Swells as when billows break on shore. Well may the camel shake with fear, And the steed pant--his foe is near. Haste! light the torch, bid watchfires throw Far o’er the waste, a ruddy glow; Keep vigil--guard the bright array Of flames that scare him from his prey; Within their magic circle press, O wanderers of the wilderness! Heap high the pile, and by its blaze, Tell the wild tales of elder days,-- Arabia’s wond’rous lore, that dwells On warrior deeds and wizard spells; Enchanted domes, mid scenes like these, Rising to vanish with the breeze; Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed Their light where mortal may not tread; And spirits, o’er whose pearly halls Th’ eternal billow heaves and falls. --With charms like these, of mystic power, Watchers! beguile the midnight hour.

Slowly that hour hath roll’d away, And star by star withdraws its ray. Dark children of the sun! again Your own rich orient hails his reign. He comes, but veil’d--with sanguine glare Tinging the mists that load the air; Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, Th’ approaching hurricane proclaim. ’Tis death’s red banner streams on high-- Fly to the rocks for shelter!--fly! Lo! dark’ning o’er the fiery skies, The pillars of the desert rise! On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, A giant-host, the heavens concealing, They move, like mighty genii-forms, Towering immense midst clouds and storms. Who shall escape!--with awful force The whirlwind bears them on their course; They join, they rush resistless on-- The landmarks of the plain are gone; The steps, the forms, from earth effaced, Of those who trod the burning waste! All whelm’d, all hush’d!--none left to bear Sad record how they perish’d there! No stone their tale of death shall tell-- The desert guards its mysteries well; And o’er th’ unfathom’d sandy deep, Where low their nameless relics sleep, Oft shall the future pilgrim tread, Nor know his steps are on the dead.

[201] The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of water.

[202] See the description of the Simoom in Bruce’s Travels.

[203] The extreme languor and despondence produced by the Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been described by many travellers.

MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

[“Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him:--“Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate’s decree, and treat you as a public enemy.” Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length the officer inquired what answer he should carry to the governor. “Go and tell him,” said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, “that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage.”--Plutarch.]

’Twas noon, and Afric’s dazzling sun on high With fierce resplendence fill’d th’ unclouded sky; No zephyr waved the palm’s majestic head, And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread; While desolate, beneath a blaze of light, Silent and lonely, as at dead of night, The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes Had strew’d their precious marble o’er the plains; Dark weeds and grass the column had o’ergrown, The lizard bask’d upon the altar stone; Whelm’d by the ruins of their own abodes, Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods; While near--dread offspring of the burning day! Coil’d midst forsaken halls the serpent lay.

There came an exile, long by fate pursued, To shelter in that awful solitude. Well did that wanderer’s high yet faded mien Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene:-- Shadow’d, not veil’d, by locks of wintry snow, Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow’d brow; Time had not quench’d the terrors of his eye, Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency; While the deep meaning of his features told Ages of thought had o’er his spirit roll’d, Nor dimm’d the fire that might not be controll’d; And still did power invest his stately form, Shatter’d, but yet unconquer’d, by the storm. --But slow his step--and where, not yet o’erthrown, Still tower’d a pillar midst the waste alone, Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid, To slumber in its solitary shade. He slept--and darkly, on his brief repose, Th’ indignant genius of the scene arose. Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread Mysterious gloom around his crownless head, Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain, The kingly shadow seem’d to lift his chain, Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn, And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!

“And sleep’st thou, Roman?” cried his voice austere; “Shall son of Latium find a refuge here? Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate, When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate! Go! with her children’s flower, the free, the brave, People the silent chambers of the grave: So shall the course of ages yet to be, More swiftly waft the day, avenging me!

“Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come, I hear a voice that prophesies her doom; I see the trophies of her pride decay, And her long line of triumphs pass away, Lost in the depths of time--while sinks the star That led her march of heroes from afar! Lo! from the frozen forests of the North, The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth! Who shall awake the mighty?--will thy woe, City of thrones! disturb the realms below? Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries Summon their shadowy legions to arise, Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls! --Barbarians revel in their ancient halls, And their lost children bend the subject knee, Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free. Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high, A creature of the empyreal--thou, whose eye Was lightning to the earth--whose pinion waved In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved; Sink from thy heavens! for glory’s noon is o’er, And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more! Closed is thy regal course--thy crest is torn, And thy plume banish’d from the realms of morn. The shaft hath reach’d thee!--rest with chiefs and kings, Who conquer’d in the shadow of thy wings; Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey, And share thy glorious heritage of day! But darker years shall mingle with the past, And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. O’er the seven hills I see destruction spread, And Empire’s widow veils with dust her head. Her gods forsake each desolated shrine, Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine: Midst fallen palaces she sits alone, Calling heroic shades from ages gone, Or bids the nations midst her deserts wait To learn the fearful oracles of Fate!

“Still sleep’st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise! Wake to obey th’ avenging Destinies! Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country’s blood Shall swell and darken Tiber’s yellow flood! My children’s manès call--awake! prepare The feast they claim!--exult in Rome’s despair! Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries, Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies; Let carnage revel e’en her shrines among, Spare not the valiant, pity not the young! Haste! o’er her hills the sword’s libation shed, And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!”

The vision flies--a mortal step is near, Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer’s ear; He starts, he wakes to woe--before him stands Th’ unwelcome messenger of harsh commands, Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief To seek on other shores a home for grief. --Silent the wanderer sat--but on his cheek The burning glow far more than words might speak; And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke Language where all th’ indignant soul awoke, Till his deep thought found voice: then, calmly stern, And sovereign in despair, he cried, “Return! Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath been!”

A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

A FRAGMENT.

The moonbeam, quivering o’er the wave, Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill, The wild wind slumbers in its cave, And heaven is cloudless--earth is still! The pile that crowns yon savage height With battlements of Gothic might, Rises in softer pomp array’d, Its massy towers half lost in shade, Half touch’d with mellowing light! The rays of night, the tints of time, Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone, O’er its rude strength and mien sublime, A placid smile have thrown. And far beyond, where wild and high, Bounding the pale blue summer sky, A mountain vista meets the eye, Its dark, luxuriant woods assume A pencil’d shade, a softer gloom: Its jutting cliffs have caught the light, Its torrents glitter through the night, While every cave and deep recess Frowns in more shadowy awfulness. Scarce moving on the glassy deep Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep; But darting from its side, How swiftly does its boat design A slender, silvery, waving line Of radiance o’er the tide! No sound is on the summer seas, But the low dashing of the oar, And faintly sighs the midnight breeze Through woods that fringe the rocky shore. That boat has reach’d the silent bay-- The dashing oar has ceased to play; The breeze has murmur’d and has died In forest shades, on ocean’s tide. No step, no tone, no breath of sound Disturbs the loneliness profound; And midnight spreads o’er earth and main A calm so holy and so deep, That voice of mortal were profane To break on nature’s sleep! It is the hour for thought to soar High o’er the cloud of earthly woes; For rapt devotion to adore-- For passion to repose; And virtue to forget her tears, In visions of sublimer spheres! For oh! those transient gleams of heaven, To calmer, purer spirits given, Children of hallow’d peace, are known In solitude and shade alone! Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon, To blow beneath the midnight moon, The garish world they will not bless, But only live in loneliness!

Hark! did some note of plaintive swell Melt on the stillness of the air? Or was it fancy’s powerful spell That woke such sweetness there? For wild and distant it arose, Like sounds that bless the bard’s repose, When in lone wood, or mossy cave, He dreams beside some fountain wave, And fairy worlds delight the eyes Wearied with life’s realities.

Was it illusion? Yet again Rises and falls th’ enchanted strain, Mellow, and sweet, and faint-- As if some spirit’s touch had given The soul of sound to harp of heaven To soothe a dying saint! Is it the mermaid’s distant shell, Warbling beneath the moonlit wave? --Such witching tones might lure full well The seaman to his grave! Sure from no mortal touch ye rise, Wild, soft, aërial melodies! --Is it the song of woodland-fay From sparry grot, or haunted bower? Hark! floating on, the magic lay Draws near yon ivied tower! Now nearer still, the listening ear May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear; And accents low, as if in fear, Thus murmur, half suppress’d:-- “Awake! the moon is bright on high, The sea is calm, the bark is nigh, The world is hush’d to rest!” Then sinks the voice--the strain is o’er, Its last low cadence dies along the shore.

Fair Bertha hears th’ expected song, Swift from her tower she glides along; No echo to her tread awakes, Her fairy step no slumber breaks; And, in that hour of silence deep, While all around the dews of sleep O’erpower each sense, each eyelid steep, Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear, Her dark eye glistens with a tear. Half-wavering now, the varying cheek And sudden pause her doubts bespeak, The lip now flush’d, now pale as death, The trembling frame, the fluttering breath! Oh! in that moment, o’er her soul What struggling passions claim control! Fear, duty, love, in conflict high, By turns have won th’ ascendency; And as, all tremulously bright, Streams o’er her face the beam of night, What thousand mix’d emotions play O’er that fair face, and melt away. Like forms whose quick succession gleams O’er fancy’s rainbow-tinted dreams; Like the swift glancing lights that rise Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies, And traverse ocean o’er; So in that full, impassion’d eye The changeful meanings rise and die, Just seen--and then no more! But oh! too short that pause. Again Thrills to her heart that witching strain:-- “Awake! the midnight moon is bright: Awake! the moments wing their flight; Haste! or they speed in vain!”---- O call of Love! thy potent spell O’er that weak heart prevails too well; The “still small voice” is heard no more That pleaded duty’s cause before, And fear is hush’d, and doubt is gone, And pride forgot, and reason flown! Her cheek, whose colour came and fled, Resumes its warmest, brightest red, Her step its quick elastic tread, Her eye its beaming smile! Through lonely court and silent hall, Flits her light shadow o’er the wall; And still that low, harmonious call Melts on her ear the while! Though love’s quick ear alone could tell The words its accents faintly swell:-- “Awake! while yet the lingering night And stars and seas befriend our flight: Oh! haste, while all is well!”---- The halls, the courts, the gates, are past, She gains the moonlit beach at last. Who waits to guide her trembling feet? Who flies the fugitive to greet? He, to her youthful heart endear’d By all it e’er had hoped and fear’d, Twined with each wish, with every thought Each day-dream fancy e’er had wrought, Whose tints portray with flattering skill What brighter worlds alone fulfil! --Alas! that aught so fair should fly Thy blighting wand, Reality!

A chieftain’s mien her Osbert bore, A pilgrim’s lowly robes he wore-- Disguise that vainly strove to hide Bearing and glance of martial pride; For he in many a battle-scene, On many a rampart breach had been; Had sternly smiled at danger nigh, Had seen the valiant bleed and die, And proudly rear’d on hostile tower, Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower, Britannia’s banner high! And though some ancient feud had taught His Bertha’s sire to loathe his name, More noble warrior never fought For glory’s prize or England’s fame. And well his dark, commanding eye, And form and step of stately grace, Accorded with achievements high, Soul of emprise and chivalry, Bright name, and generous race! His cheek, embrown’d by many a sun, Tells a proud tale of glory won, Of vigil, march, and combat rude, Valour, and toil, and fortitude! E’en while youth’s earliest blushes threw Warm o’er that cheek their vivid hue, His gallant soul, his stripling form, Had braved the battle’s rudest storm; When England’s conquering archers stood, And dyed thy plain, Poitiers! with blood, When shiver’d axe, and cloven shield, And shatter’d helmet, strew’d the field, And France around her king in vain Had marshall’d valour’s noblest train-- In that dread strife his lightning eye Had flash’d with transport keen and high, And midst the battle’s wildest tide, Throbb’d his young heart with hope and pride.

Alike that fearless heart could brave Death on the war-field or the wave; Alike in tournament or fight, That ardent spirit found delight! Yet oft, midst hostile scenes afar, Bright o’er his soul a vision came, Rising like some benignant star, On stormy seas or plains of war, To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame, The heart that throbb’d to Bertha’s name! And midst the wildest rage of fight, And in the deepest calm of night, To her his thoughts would wing their flight With fond devotion warm; Oft would those glowing thoughts portray Some home, from tumults far away, Graced with that angel form! And now his spirit fondly deems Fulfill’d its loveliest, dearest dreams!

Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow, In minstrel garb attends the chief? The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow Reveals a shade of grief. Sorrow and time have touch’d his face With mournful yet majestic grace, Soft as the melancholy smile Of sunset on some ruin’d pile! --It is the bard, whose song had power To lure the maiden from her tower-- The bard, whose wild inspiring lays, E’en in gay childhood’s earliest days, First woke, in Osbert’s kindling breast, The flame that will not be represt, The pulse that throbs for praise! Those lays had banish’d from his eye The bright soft tears of infancy, Had soothed the boy to calm repose, Had hush’d his bosom’s earliest woes; And when the light of thought awoke, When first young reason’s day-spring broke, More powerful still, they bade arise His spirit’s burning energies! Then the bright dream of glory warm’d, Then the loud pealing war-song charm’d, The legends of each martial line, The battle-tales of Palestine: And oft, since then, his deeds had proved Themes of the lofty lays he loved! Now, at triumphant love’s command, Since Osbert leaves his native land, Forsaking glory’s high career For her than glory far more dear; Since hope’s gay dream and meteor ray To distant regions point his way, That there Affection’s hands may dress A fairy bower for happiness; That fond devoted bard, though now Time’s wintery garland wreathes his brow, Though quench’d the sunbeam of his eye, And fled his spirit’s buoyancy, And strength and enterprise are past, Still follows constant to the last! Though his sole wish was but to die Midst the calm scenes of days gone by, And all that hallows and endears The memory of departed years-- Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined To those loved scenes his pensive mind; Ah! what can tear the links apart That bind his chieftain to his heart? What smile but his with joy can light The eye obscured by age’s night? Last of a loved and honour’d line, Last tie to earth in life’s decline, Till death its lingering spark shall dim, That faithful eye must gaze on him!

Silent and swift, with footstep light, Haste on those fugitives of night. They reach the boat--the rapid oar Soon wafts them from the wooded shore: The bark is gain’d! A gallant few, Vassals of Osbert, form its crew; The pennant, in the moonlight beam, With soft suffusion glows; From the white sail a silvery gleam Falls on the wave’s repose; Long shadows undulating play, From mast and streamer, o’er the bay; But still so hush’d the summer air, They tremble, midst that scene so fair, Lest morn’s first beam behold them there. --Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night! From river wave, or mountain height, Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers, By haunted spring in forest bowers; Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell, In amber grot, where mermaids dwell, And cavern’d gems their lustre throw O’er the red sea-flowers’ vivid glow? Where treasures, not for mortal gaze, In solitary splendour blaze, And sounds, ne’er heard by mortal ear, Swell through the deep’s unfathom’d sphere? What grove of that mysterious world Holds thy light wing in slumber furl’d? Awake! o’er glittering seas to rove: Awake! to guide the bark of love! Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon Shall fade the bright propitious moon; Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, E’en now--but lo! the rustling sail Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale! The bark glides on--their fears are o’er; Recedes the bold romantic shore, Its features mingling fast. Gaze, Bertha! gaze: thy lingering eye May still each lovely scene descry Of years for ever past! There wave the woods, beneath whose shade With bounding step thy childhood play’d, Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns, Free as their native birds and fawns; Listening the sylvan sounds, that float On each low breeze, midst dells remote-- The ringdove’s deep melodious moan, The rustling deer in thickets lone; The wild-bee’s hum, the aspen’s sigh, The wood-stream’s plaintive harmony. Dear scenes of many a sportive hour, There thy own mountains darkly tower! Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude But thou hast loved its solitude! No path so wild but thou hast known, And traced its rugged course alone! The earliest wreath that bound thy hair Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there. There in the day-spring of thy years, Undimm’d by passions or by tears, Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye Wander’d o’er ocean, earth, or sky, While the wild breeze that round thee blew, Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue. Pure as the skies that o’er thy head Their clear and cloudless azure spread, Pure as that gale whose light wing drew Its freshness from the mountain dew, Glow’d thy young heart with feelings high, A heaven of hallow’d ecstasy! Such days were thine! ere love had drawn A cloud o’er that celestial dawn! As the clear dews in morning’s beam With soft reflected colouring stream, Catch every tint of eastern gem To form the rose’s diadem, But vanish when the noontide hour Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower-- Thus in thy soul each calm delight, Like morn’s first dew-drops, pure and bright, Fled swift from passion’s blighting fire, Or linger’d only to expire! Spring on thy native hills again Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise, And call forth, in each grassy glen, Her brightest emerald dyes! There shall the lonely mountain rose, Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose; Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream Shall sparkle in the summer beam; The birch, o’er precipice and cave, Its feathery foliage still shall wave, The ash midst rugged clefts unveil Its coral clusters to the gale, And autumn shed a warmer bloom O’er the rich heath and glowing broom. But thy light footstep there no more Each path, each dingle shall explore. In vain may smile each green recess, --Who now shall pierce its loneliness? The stream through shadowy glens may stray, --Who now shall trace its glistening way? In solitude, in silence deep, Shrined midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep, No lute’s wild swell again shall rise To wake her mystic melodies. All soft may blow the mountain air, --It will not wave thy graceful hair! The mountain rose may bloom and die, --It will not meet thy smiling eye! But like those scenes of vanish’d days, Shall others ne’er delight; Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze, Yet seem not half so bright! O’er the dim woodlands’ fading hue Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high; Gaze on, while yet ’tis thine to view That home of infancy! Heed not the night-dew’s chilling power, Heed not the sea-wind’s coldest hour, But pause and linger on the deck, Till of those towers no trace, no speck, Is gleaming o’er the main; For when the mist of morn shall rise, Blending the sea, the shore, the skies, That home, once vanish’d from thine eyes, Shall bless them ne’er again!

There the dark tales and songs of yore First with strange transport thrill’d thy soul, E’en while their fearful mystic lore From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole. There, while thy father’s raptured ear Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear, And in his eye the trembling tear Reveal’d his spirit’s trance; How oft, those echoing halls along, Thy thrilling voice has swell’d the song-- Tradition wild of other days, Or troubadour’s heroic lays, Or legend of romance! Oh! many an hour has there been thine, That memory’s pencil oft shall dress In softer shades, and tints that shine In mellow’d loveliness! While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears, Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret, The sunshine of thine early years, Scarce deem’d so radiant--till it set! The cloudless peace, unprized till gone, The bliss, till vanish’d hardly known!

On rock and turret, wood and hill, The fading moonbeams linger still, Still, Bertha! gaze on yon gray tower, At evening’s last and sweetest hour, While varying still, the western skies Flush’d the clear seas with rainbow dyes, Whose warm suffusions glow’d and pass’d, Each richer, lovelier, than the last. How oft, while gazing on the deep, That seem’d a heaven of peace to sleep, As if its wave, so still, so fair, More frowning mien might never wear, The twilight calm of mental rest Would steal in silence o’er thy breast, And wake that dear and balmy sigh That softly breathes the spirit’s harmony! --Ah! ne’er again shall hours to thee be given Of joy on earth--so near allied to heaven!

Why starts the tear to Bertha’s eye? Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh? Is there a grief his voice, his smile, His words, are fruitless to beguile? --Oh! bitter to the youthful heart, That scarce a pang, a care has known, The hour when first from scenes we part, Where life’s bright spring has flown! Forsaking, o’er the world to roam, That little shrine of peace--our home! E’en if delighted fancy throw O’er that cold world, her brightest glow, Painting its untried paths with flowers, That will not live in earthly bowers, (Too frail, too exquisite, to bear One breath of life’s ungenial air;) E’en if such dreams of hope arise As heaven alone can realise, Cold were the breast that would not heave One sigh, the home of youth to leave; Stern were the heart that would not swell To breathe life’s saddest word--farewell! Though earth has many a deeper woe, Though tears more bitter far must flow, That hour, whate’er our future lot, That first fond grief, is ne’er forgot!

Such was the pang of Bertha’s heart, The thought, that bade the tear-drop start; And Osbert by her side Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell Nature’s fond struggle told too well; And days of future bliss portray’d, And love’s own eloquence essay’d, To soothe his plighted bride! Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells, In that sweet land to which they fly; The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells Of blooming Italy. For he had roved a pilgrim there, And gazed on many a spot so fair It seem’d like some enchanted grove, Where only peace, and joy, and love, Those exiles of the world, might rove, And breathe its heavenly air; And, all unmix’d with ruder tone, Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone! Far from the frown of stern control, That vainly would subdue the soul, There shall their long-affianced hands Be join’d in consecrated bands. And in some rich, romantic vale, Circled with heights of Alpine snow, Where citron-woods enrich the gale, And scented shrubs their balm exhale, And flowering myrtles blow; And midst the mulberry boughs on high Weaves the wild vine her tapestry; On some bright streamlet’s emerald side, Where cedars wave in graceful pride, Bosom’d in groves, their home shall rise, A shelter’d bower of paradise! Thus would the lover soothe to rest With tales of hope her anxious breast; Nor vain that dear enchanting lore Her soul’s bright visions to restore, And bid gay phantoms of delight Float in soft colouring o’er her sight. ----O Youth! sweet May-morn, fled so soon, Far brighter than life’s loveliest noon, How oft thy spirit’s buoyant power Will triumph, e’en in sorrow’s hour Prevailing o’er regret! As rears its head th’ elastic flower Though the dark tempest’s recent shower Hang on its petals yet!

Ah! not so soon can hope’s gay smile The aged bard to joy beguile; Those silent years that steal away The cheek’s warm rose, the eye’s bright ray, Win from the mind a nobler prize, E’en all its buoyant energies! For him the April days are past, When grief was but a fleeting cloud; No transient shade will sorrow cast, When age the spirit’s might has bow’d! And, as he sees the land grow dim, That native land now lost to him, Fix’d are his eyes, and clasp’d his hands, And long in speechless grief he stands: So desolately calm his air, He seems an image wrought to bear The stamp of deep, though hush’d despair. Motion and life no sign bespeaks, Save that the night-breeze, o’er his cheeks, Just waves his silvery hair! Nought else could teach the eye to know He was no sculptured form of woe! Long gazing o’er the dark’ning flood, Pale in that silent grief he stood, Till the cold moon was waning fast, And many a lovely star had died, And the gray heavens deep shadows cast Far o’er the slumbering tide; And, robed in one dark solemn hue, Arose the distant shore to view. Then, starting from his trance of woe, Tears, long suppress’d, in freedom flow, While thus his wild and plaintive strain Blends with the murmur of the main.

THE BARD’S FAREWELL.

“Thou setting moon! when next thy rays Are trembling on the shadowy deep, The land, now fading from thy gaze, These eyes in vain shall weep; And wander o’er the lonely sea, And fix their tearful glance on thee-- On thee! whose light so softly gleams Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams.

“But midst those ancient groves, no more Shall I thy quivering lustre hail; Its plaintive strain my harp must pour To swell a foreign gale. The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke When its full tones their stillness broke, Deserted now, shall hear alone The brook’s wild voice, the wind’s mysterious moan.

“And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls, Left by your lord to slow decay, Soon shall the trophies on your walls Be mouldering fast away! There shall no choral songs resound, There shall no festal board be crown’d; But ivy wreathe the silent gate, And all be hush’d, and cold, and desolate.

“No banner from the stately tower Shall spread its blazon’d folds on high; There the wild brier and summer flower, Unmark’d, shall wave and die. Home of the mighty! thou art lone, The noonday of thy pride is gone, And, midst thy solitude profound, A step shall echo like unearthly sound!

“From thy cold hearths no festal blaze Shall fill the hall with ruddy light, Nor welcome with convivial rays Some pilgrim of the night. But there shall grass luxuriant spread, As o’er the dwellings of the dead; And the deep swell of every blast Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past.

“And I--my joy of life is fled, My spirit’s power, my bosom’s glow; The raven locks that graced my head, Wave in a wreath of snow! And where the star of youth arose I deem’d life’s lingering ray should close, And those loved trees my tomb o’ershade, Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play’d.

“Vain dream! that tomb in distant earth Shall rise, forsaken and forgot; And thou, sweet land that gavest me birth! A grave must yield me not. Yet, haply, he for whom I leave Thy shores, in life’s dark winter eve, When cold the hand, and closed the lays, And mute the voice he loved to praise, O’er the hush’d harp one tear may shed, And one frail garland o’er the minstrel’s bed!”

BELSHAZZAR’S FEAST.

Twas night in Babylon: yet many a beam, Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high, Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates’ stream With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky, Whose azure knows no cloud: each whisper’d sigh Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers, Bore deepening tones of joy and melody, O’er an illumined wilderness of flowers; And the glad city’s voice went up from all her towers.

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall, Where midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band, High at the stately midnight festival, Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury’s hand Had shower’d around all treasures that expand Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour The sunbeams back; all sweets of many a land Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore --But mortal pride look’d on, and still demanded more.

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain! The lord of nations spoke,--and forth were brought The spoils of Salem’s devastated fane. Thrice-holy vessels!--pure from earthly stain, And set apart, and sanctified to Him Who deign’d within the oracle to reign, Reveal’d yet shadow’d; making noonday dim, To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim.

They came, and louder peal’d the voice of song, And pride flash’d brighter from the kindling eye; And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng, In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy The Rock of Zion! Fill the nectar high, High in the cups of consecrated gold! And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die, And bid the censers of the temple hold Offerings to Babel’s gods, the mighty ones of old!

Peace!--is it but a phantom of the brain, Thus shadow’d forth, the senses to appall, Yon fearful vision? Who shall gaze again To search its cause? Along the illumined wall, Startling yet riveting the eyes of all, Darkly it moves,--a hand, a human hand, O’er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall, In silence tracing, as a mystic wand, Words all unknown, the tongue of some far-distant land!

There are pale cheeks around the regal board, And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low, And fitful starts!--the wine, in triumph pour’d, Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow, The waving censer drops to earth--and lo! The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth, Trembles before a shadow! Say not so! --The child of dust, with guilt’s foreboding sight, Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite!

“But haste ye!--bring Chaldea’s gifted seers, The men of prescience! Haply to their eyes, Which track the future through the rolling spheres, Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.” They come--the readers of the midnight skies, They that gave voice to visions--but in vain! Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies, It hath no language midst the starry train, Earth has no gifted tongue heaven’s mysteries to explain.

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, And other inspiration!--one of those Who on the willows hung their captive lyres, And sat and wept, where Babel’s river flows. His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose Of his pure features half o’erawed the mind; Telling of inward mysteries--joys and woes In lone recesses of the soul enshrined; Depths of a being seal’d and sever’d from mankind.

Yes!--what was earth to him, whose spirit pass’d Time’s utmost bounds? on whose unshrinking sight Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast Their full resplendence? Majesty and might Were in his dreams; for him the veil of light Shrouding heaven’s inmost sanctuary and throne, The curtain of th’ unutterably bright, Was raised!--to him, in fearful splendour shown, Ancient of Days! e’en Thou madest thy dread presence known.

He spoke--the shadows of the things to come Pass’d o’er his soul:--“O King, elate in pride! God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom-- The one, the living God, by thee defied! He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried, Hath weigh’d, and found thee wanting. ’Tis decreed The conqueror’s hands thy kingdom shall divide, The stranger to thy throne of power succeed! Thy days are full: they come,--the Persian and the Mede!”

There fell a moment’s thrilling silence round-- A breathless pause!--the hush of hearts that beat, And limbs that quiver. Is there not a sound, A gathering-cry, a tread of hurrying feet? --’Twas but some echo in the crowded street, Of far-heard revelry; the shout, the song, The measured dance to music wildly sweet, That speeds the stars their joyous course along-- Away! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng!

Peace yet again! Hark! steps in tumult flying, Steeds rushing on, as o’er a battle-field! The shouts of hosts exulting or defying, The press of multitudes that strive or yield! And the loud startling clash of spear and shield, Sudden as earthquake’s burst; and, blent with these, The last wild shriek of those whose doom is seal’d In their full mirth!--all deepening on the breeze, As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas!

And nearer yet the trumpet’s blast is swelling, Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry; And, lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling, Death--bursting on the halls of revelry! Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die, The sword hath raged through joy’s devoted train; Ere one bright star be faded from the sky, Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane; Empire is lost and won--Belshazzar with the slain.[204]

[Belshazzar’s Feast had previously been published in the Collection of Poems from Living Authors, edited for a benevolent purpose by Mrs Joanna Baillie.--Memoir, p. 68.

“Miss Baillie’s volume contained several poems by Mrs Hemans; some jeux d’esprit, by the late Miss Catherine Fanshawe, a woman of rare wit and genius, in whose society Scott greatly delighted; and, inter alia, Mr William Howison’s early ballad of Polydore, which had been originally published under Scott’s auspices, in the Edinburgh Register for 1810.”--Lockhart’s Life of Scott, vol. v. p. 287.

It is worthy of remembrance that Sir Walter’s own “Macduff’s Cross,” and Southey’s lively and eccentric nursery rhymes on the “Cataract of Lodoar,” first made their appearance in the collection referred to.]

[204] As originally written, the following additional stanzas (afterwards omitted) concluded this poem:--

Fallen is the golden city! In the dust, Spoil’d of her crown, dismantled of her state, She that hath made the strength of towers her trust Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate! She that beheld the nations at her gate, Thronging in homage, shall be call’d no more Lady of kingdoms! Who shall mourn her fate? Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o’er-- What widow’d land shall now her widowhood deplore?

Sit thou in silence! Thou that wert enthroned On many waters!--thou, whose augurs read The language of the planets, and disown’d The mighty Name it blazons!--veil thy head, Daughter of Babylon! The sword is red From thy destroyer’s harvest, and the yoke Is on thee, O most proud!--for thou hast said, “I am, and none beside!” Th’ Eternal spoke; Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke!

But go thou forth, O Israel!--wake! rejoice! Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day! Renew the sound of harps, th’ exulting voice, The mirth of timbrels!--loose the chain, and say God hath redeem’d his people!--from decay The silent and the trampled shall arise! Awake!--put on thy beautiful array, O long-forsaken Zion!--to the skies Send up on every wind thy choral melodies!

And lift thy head!--Behold thy sons returning Redeem’d from exile, ransom’d from the chain, Light hath revisited the house of mourning: She that on Judah’s mountains wept in vain, Because her children were not, dwells again Girt with the lovely! Through thy streets once more, City of God! shall pass the bridal train, And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour, And the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore.

THE LAST CONSTANTINE.

... “Thou strivest nobly, When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk; And o’er thy fall, if it be so decreed, Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears ... ... Fame I look not for; But to sustain, in Heaven’s all-seeing eye, Before my fellow men, in mine own sight, With graceful virtue and becoming pride, The dignity and honour of a man, Thus station’d as I am, I will do all That man may do.” Miss Baillie’s “Constantine Palæologus.”

I.

The fires grew pale on Rome’s deserted shrines, In the dim grot the Pythia’s voice had died; --Shout for the City of the Constantines, The rising city of the billow-side, The City of the Cross!--great ocean’s bride, Crown’d with her birth she sprung! Long ages past, And still she look’d in glory o’er the tide, Which at her feet barbaric riches cast, Pour’d by the burning East, all joyously and fast.

II.

Long ages past!--they left her porphyry halls Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold Broider’d her mantle, and her castled walls Frown’d in their strength; yet there were signs which told The days were full. The pure high faith of old Was changed; and on her silken couch of sleep She lay, and murmur’d if a rose-leaf’s fold Disturb’d her dreams; and call’d her slaves to keep Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her o’er the deep.

III.

But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling Free hearts and fearless only may exclude; ’Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, Breaks on the soft repose by luxury woo’d! There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude Where the lamps glitter and the wine-cup flows; And darker hues have stain’d the marble, strew’d With the fresh myrtle and the short-lived rose; And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.

IV.

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm’s roar Through Ida’s giant-pines! Across the seas A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore From Tempe’s haunted river to the shore Of the reed-crown’d Eurotas; when, of old, Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o’er Th’ indignant wave, which would not be controll’d, But past the Persian’s chain in boundless freedom roll’d.

V.

And it is thus again! Swift oars are dashing The parted waters, and a light is cast On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashing Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast. There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, A music of the deserts, wild and deep, Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are pass’d Where low midst Ilion’s dust her conquerors sleep, O’ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.

VI.

War from the West!--the snows on Thracian hills Are loosed by Spring’s warm breath; yet o’er the lands Which Hæmus girds, the chainless mountain-rills Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. War from the East!--midst Araby’s lone sands, More lonely now the few bright founts may be, While Ismael’s bow is bent in warrior-hands Against the Golden City of the sea.[205] --Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylæ!

VII.

Hear yet again, ye mighty!--Where are they Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown’d, Leap’d up in proudly beautiful array, As to a banquet gathering, at the sound Of Persia’s clarion? Far and joyous round, From the pine forests, and the mountain snows, And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound Of the bright waves, at freedom’s voice they rose! --Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb’s repose?

VIII.

They slumber with their swords!--the olive shades In vain are whispering their immortal tale! In vain the spirit of the past pervades The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale. Yet must thou wake, though all unarm’d and pale, Devoted City! Lo! the Moslem’s spear, Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear! --Awake! and summon those, who yet perchance may hear!

IX.

Be hush’d, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping! Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high, And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping In their proud graves of sainted chivalry, Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh To Syrian gales! The sons of each brave line From their baronial halls shall hear your cry, And seize the arms which flash’d round Salem’s shrine, And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine!

X.

All still, all voiceless!--and the billow’s roar Alone replies! Alike their soul is gone Who shared the funeral-feast on Œta’s shore, And theirs that o’er the field of Ascalon Swell’d the crusaders’ hymn! Then gird thou on Thine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hour Which waits thee ere the day’s fierce work is done With a strong heart: so may thy helmet tower Unshiver’d through the storm, for generous hope is power!

XI.

But linger not,--array thy men of might! The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes. Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming bright, And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near, Around thy walls the sons of battle close; Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear, Which the deep grave alone is charter’d not to hear!

XII.

Away! bring wine, bring odours, to the shade[206] Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high! Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade! Snatch every brief delight,--since we must die!-- Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks! gone by, For feast in vine-wreath’d bower or pillar’d hall; Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky, And deep and hollow is the tambour’s call, And from the startled hand th’ untasted cup will fall.

XIII.

The night--the glorious oriental night, Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven, With its clear stars! The red artillery’s light, Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven, To the still firmament’s expanse hath given Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower Starts wildly forth; and now the air is riven With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds lower, Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow’d hour.

XIV.

Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with these A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth To faith and courage! From luxurious ease A gallant few have started! O’er the seas, From the Seven Towers,[207] their banner waves its sign; And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze, Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was thine; Thy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine.

XV.

Was Rome thy parent? Didst thou catch from her The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye? --That city of the throne and sepulchre Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die! Heir of the Cæsars! did that lineage high, Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass’d With its long march of spectred imagery,[208] Th’ heroic mantle o’er thy spirit cast? Thou! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last!

XVI.

Vain dreams! Upon that spirit hath descended Light from the living Fountain, whence each thought Springs pure and holy! In that eye is blended A spark, with earth’s triumphal memories fraught, And, far within, a deeper meaning, caught From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust, Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought (Though through its veil seen darkly from the dust) In realms where Time no more hath power upon the just.

XVII.

Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain, And in the sun’s bright face, and midst th’ array Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain, The Roman cast his glittering mail away,[209] And while a silence, as of midnight, lay O’er breathless thousands at his voice who started, Call’d on the unseen terrific powers that sway The heights, the depths, the shades; then, fearless-hearted, Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed!

XVIII.

But then, around him as the javelins rush’d, From earth to heaven swell’d up the loud acclaim; And, ere his heart’s last free libation gush’d, With a bright smile, the warrior caught his name Far-floating on the winds! And Victory came, And made the hour of that immortal deed A life, in fiery feeling! Valour’s aim Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed Was to be Rome’s high star!--He died--and had his meed.

XIX.

But praise--and dearer, holier praise be theirs, Who, in the stillness and the solitude Of hearts press’d earthwards by a weight of cares, Uncheer’d by Fame’s proud hope, th’ ethereal food Of restless energies, and only view’d By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, Is on the soul’s dark places; have subdued And vow’d themselves with strength till then unknown, To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone.

XX.

Theirs be the bright and sacred names, enshrined Far in the bosom! for their deeds belong, Not to the gorgeous faith which charm’d mankind With its rich pomp of festival and song, Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng; But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries Man’s hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong Than storm or earthquake’s voice; for thence arise All that mysterious world’s unseen sublimities.

XXI.

Well might thy name, brave Constantine! awake Such thought, such feeling!--But the scene again Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break Through the red sulphurous mists: the camp, the plain, The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane, With its bright cross fix’d high in crowning grace; Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main, And, circling all with arms, that turban’d race-- The sun, the desert, stamp’d in each dark haughty face.

XXII.

Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streaming Red o’er the waters![210] Hail, deliverers, hail! Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming, Is Hope’s own smile! They crowd the swelling sail, On, with the foam, the sunbeam and the gale, Borne, as a victor’s car! The batteries pour Their clouds and thunders; but the rolling veil Of smoke floats up the exulting winds before! --And oh! the glorious burst of that bright sea and shore!

XXIII.

The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe’s, Asia’s coast, All throng’d! one theatre for kingly war! A monarch, girt with his barbaric host, Points o’er the beach his flashing scimitar! Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar, Hands waving banners o’er each battlement, Decks, with their serried guns, array’d to bar The promised aid: but hark! a shout is sent Up from the noble barks!--the Moslem line is rent!

XXIV.

On, on through rushing flame and arrowy shower, The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way; And, with the shadows of the vesper hour, Furl’d their white sails, and anchor’d in the bay. Then were the streets with song and torch-fire gay, Then the Greek wines flow’d mantling in the light Of festal halls; and there was joy!--the ray Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright-- The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight.

XXV.

For vain that feeble succour! Day by day Th’ imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweep Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play, Comes powerful, as when heaven unbinds the deep! --Man’s heart is mightier than the castled steep, Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled; Man’s thoughts work darkly in such hours, and sleep Flies far; and in their mien, the walls who tread, Things by the brave untold may fearfully be read!

XXVI.

It was a sad and solemn task, to hold Their midnight-watch on that beleaguer’d wall! As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roll’d, A sound of fate was in its rise and fall; The heavy clouds were as an empire’s pall, The giant shadows of each tower and fane Lay like the grave’s; a low mysterious call Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain, A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain.

XXVII.

For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing, The Thracian drum, the Tartar’s drowsy song; Might almost hear the soldan’s banner swaying, The watchword mutter’d in some eastern tongue. Then flash’d the gun’s terrific light along The marble streets, all stillness--not repose; And boding thoughts came o’er them, dark and strong; For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those Who see their number’d hours fast pressing to the close.

XXVIII.

But strength is from the Mightiest! There is one Still in the breach and on the rampart seen, Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun, And tells in silence how the night hath been In kingly halls a vigil: yet serene The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye; And there is that in his collected mien, To which the hearts of noble men reply With fires, partaking not this frame’s mortality!

XXIX.

Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate To pass o’er earth in brightness but alone; High power was made their birthright, to create A thousand thoughts responsive to their own! A thousand echoes of their spirit’s tone Start into life, where’er their path may be, Still following fast; as when the wind hath blown O’er Indian groves,[211] a wanderer wild and free, Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree!

XXX.

And it is thus with thee! thy lot is cast On evil days, thou Cæsar!--yet the few, That set their generous bosom to the blast Which rocks thy throne--the fearless and the true, Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew The free devotion of the years gone by, When from bright dreams th’ ascendant Roman drew Enduring strength! States vanish--ages fly-- But leave one task unchanged--to suffer and to die!

XXXI.

These are our nature’s heritage. But thou, The crown’d with empire! thou wert call’d to share A cup more bitter. On thy fever’d brow The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, Which long had pass’d away; alone to bear The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came As a strong billow in their weight of care, And with all this to smile! For earth-born frame These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown to fame!

XXXII.

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field, On the red scaffold; and where’er, in sight Of human eyes, the human soul is steel’d To deeds that seem as of immortal might, Yet are proud Nature’s! But her meteor-light Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not where In silence, and in secret, and in night, The noble heart doth wrestle with despair, And rise more strong than death from its unwitness’d prayer.

XXXIII.

Men have been firm in battle; they have stood With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains, And won the birthright of their hearths with blood, And died rejoicing, midst their ancient fanes, That so their children, undefiled with chains, Might worship there in peace. But they that stand When not a beacon o’er the wave remains, Link’d but to perish with a ruin’d land, Where Freedom dies with them--call these a martyr-band!

XXXIV.

But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance, Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, It is but as the Roman’s stoic glance Fell on that stage, where man’s last agony Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die, Reck’d not which champion; but prepared the strain, And bound the bloody wreath of victory, To greet the conqueror; while, with calm disdain, The vanquish’d proudly met the doom he met in vain.

XXXV.

The hour of Fate comes on! and it is fraught With this of Liberty, that now the need Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought, And clothe the heart, which still beneath must bleed, With Hope’s fair-seeming drapery. We are freed From tasks like these by misery: one alone Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed, Prince, watcher, wearied one! when thou hast shown How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave and throne.

XXXVI.

The signs are full. They are not in the sky, Nor in the many voices of the air, Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high Toss their wild spears: no meteor banners glare, No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair; And yet the signs are full: too truly seen In the thinn’d ramparts, in the pale despair Which lends one language to a people’s mien, And in the ruin’d heaps where wall and towers have been!

XXXVII.

It is a night of beauty: such a night As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade, Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright, Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and glade To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade Their forest haunts; a night to rove alone Where the young leaves by vernal winds are sway’d, And the reeds whisper with a dreamy tone Of melody that seems to breathe from worlds unknown;

XXXVIII.

A night to call from green Elysium’s bowers The shades of elder bards; a night to hold Unseen communion with th’ inspiring powers That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old; A night for mourners, o’er the hallow’d mould, To strew sweet flowers--for revellers to fill And wreathe the cup--for sorrows to be told Which love hath cherish’d long. Vain thoughts! be still! It is a night of fate, stamp’d with Almighty Will!

XXXIX.

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rending The ancient summits in its dread career! And with vast billows wrathfully contending, And with dark clouds o’ershadowing every sphere! But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with fear, Passing to lay the sovereign cities low, Alike in His omnipotence is near, When the soft winds o’er spring’s green pathway blow, And when His thunders cleave the monarch mountain’s brow.

XL.

The heavens in still magnificence look down On the hush’d Bosphorus, whose ocean stream Sleeps with its paler stars: the snowy crown Of far Olympus,[212] in the moonlight gleam, Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan’s dream Throng’d it with gods, and bent th’ adoring knee; --But that is past--and now the One Supreme Fills not alone those haunts, but earth, air, sea, And Time, which presses on to finish his decree.

XLI.

Olympus, Ida, Delphi! ye, the thrones And temples of a visionary might, Brooding in clouds above your forest zones, And mantling thence the realms beneath with night: Ye have look’d down on battles--Fear and Flight, And arm’d Revenge, all hurrying past below!-- But there is yet a more appalling sight For earth prepared than e’er, with tranquil brow, Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and snow!

XLII.

Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, And Asia’s hills re-echo’d to a cry Of savage mirth! Wild horn and war-steeds’ tramp Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry, The clash of desert-spears! Last night the sky A hue of menace and of wrath put on, Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and high, And countless as the flames in ages gone, Streaming to heaven’s bright queen from shadowy Lebanon!

XLIII.

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep Which wraps those Eastern thousands? Yes! perchance Along yon moonlit shore and dark-blue deep, Bright are their visions with the Houri’s glance, And they behold the sparkling fountains dance Beneath the bowers of paradise that shed Rich odours o’er the faithful; but the lance, The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers spread, Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the dead.

XLIV.

May this be sleep, this hush?--A sleepless eye Doth hold its vigil midst that dusky race! One that would scan th’ abyss of destiny E’en now is gazing on the skies to trace, In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space, Fate’s mystic pathway: they the while, serene, Walk in their beauty; but Mohammed’s face Kindles beneath their aspect,[213] and his mien, All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen.

XLV.

Oh! wild presumption of a conqueror’s dream, To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined In depths of blue infinitude, and deem They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind O’er fields of blood! But with the restless mind It hath been ever thus! and they that weep For worlds to conquer, o’er the bounds assign’d To human search, in daring pride would sweep, As o’er the trampled dust wherein they soon must sleep.

XLVI.

But ye! that beam’d on Fate’s tremendous night, When the storm burst o’er golden Babylon; And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light O’er burning Salem, by the Roman won; And ye, that calmly view’d the slaughter done In Rome’s own streets, when Alaric’s trumpet-blast Rang through the Capitol: bright spheres! roll on! Still bright, though empires fall; and bid man cast His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the past.

XLVII.

For it hath mighty lessons! from the tomb, And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, Midst the wreck’d cities in the desert’s gloom, All tameless creatures make their savage lair, Thence comes its voice, that shakes the midnight air, And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day, And thrills the soul;--yet bids us not despair, But make one Rock our shelter and our stay, Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay!

XLVIII.

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam O’er the hush’d waters tremulously fall, Pour’d from the Cæsars’ palace; now the beam Of many lamps is brightening in the hall, And from its long arcades and pillars tall Soft graceful shadows undulating lie On the wave’s heaving bosom, and recall A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky, And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry.

XLIX.

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound! The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more, Wafting an atmosphere of music round, Tells the hush’d seaman, gliding past the shore, How monarchs revel there! Its feasts are o’er-- Why gleam the lights along its colonnade? --I see a train of guests in silence pour Through its long avenues of terraced shade, Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone were made!

L.

In silence, and in arms! With helm--with sword-- These are no marriage garments! Yet e’en now Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board, Thy Georgian bride should wreathe her lovely brow With an imperial diadem![214]--but thou, O fated prince! art call’d, and these with thee, To darker scenes; and thou hast learn’d to bow Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree, And count it joy enough to perish--being free!

LI.

On through long vestibules, with solemn tread, As men, that in some time of fear and woe, Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead, O’er whom by day their sorrows may not flow, The warriors pass: their measured steps are slow, And hollow echoes fill the marble halls, Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go In desolate pomp; and from the pictured walls, Sad seems the light itself which on their armour falls!

LII.

And they have reach’d a gorgeous chamber, bright With all we dream of splendour; yet a gloom Seems gather’d o’er it to the boding sight, A shadow that anticipates the tomb! Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume A purple canopy, a golden throne; But it is empty!--hath the stroke of doom Fallen there already? Where is He, the One, Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone?

LIII.

Oh! there are times whose pleasure doth efface Earth’s vain distinctions! When the storm beats loud, When the strong towers are tottering to their base, And the streets rock,--who mingle in the crowd? --Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud, Are in that throng! Yes, life hath many an hour Which makes us kindred, by one chast’ning bow’d, And feeling but, as from the storm we cower, What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded power!

LIV.

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high, Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak, In the deep human heart more gloriously, Than in the bursting thunder! Thence the weak, They that seem’d form’d, as flower-stems, but to break With the first wind, have risen to deeds whose name Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek, And thrill the pulse!--Ay, strength no pangs could tame Hath look’d from woman’s eye upon the sword and flame!

LV.

And this is of such hours!--That throne is void, And its lord comes uncrown’d. Behold him stand, With a calm brow, where woes have not destroy’d The Greek’s heroic beauty, midst his band, The gather’d virtue of a sinking land-- Alas! how scanty! Now is cast aside All form of princely state; each noble hand Is press’d by turns in his: for earthly pride There is no room in hearts where earthly hope hath died!

LVI.

A moment’s hush--and then he speaks--he speaks! But not of hope! that dream hath long gone by: His words are full of memory--as he seeks, By the strong names of Rome and Liberty, Which yet are living powers that fire the eye, And rouse the heart of manhood; and by all The sad yet grand remembrances, that lie Deep with earth’s buried heroes; to recall The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall!

LVII.

His words are full of faith!--and thoughts, more high Than Rome e’er knew, now fill his glance with light; Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die, Than e’er were drawn from Nature’s haughty might! And to that eye, with all the spirit bright, Have theirs replied in tears, which may not shame The bravest in such moments! ’Tis a sight To make all earthly splendours cold and tame, --That generous burst of soul, with its electric flame!

LVIII.

They weep--those champions of the Cross--they weep, Yet vow themselves to death! Ay, midst that train, Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep Their lofty sacrifice! The pang is vain, And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain A warrior’s sword. Those men are strangers here:[215] The homes they never may behold again, Lie far away, with all things blest and dear, On laughing shores, to which their barks no more shall steer!

LIX.

Know’st thou the land where bloom the orange bowers?[216] Where, through dark foliage, gleam the citron’s dyes? --It is their own. They see their fathers’ towers Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise: They meet, in soul, the bright Italian eyes Which long and vainly shall explore the main For their white sails’ return: the melodies Of that sweet land are floating o’er their brain-- Oh! what a crowded world one moment may contain!

LX.

Such moments come to thousands!--few may die Amidst their native shades. The young, the brave, The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye Made summer in a parent’s heart, and gave Light to their peopled homes; o’er land and wave Are scatter’d fast and far, as rose-leaves fall From the deserted stem. They find a grave Far from the shadow of th’ ancestral hall, A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope to all!

LXI.

But life flows on, and bears us with its tide, Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell, Though they were those once blooming at our side In youth’s gay home! Away! what sound’s deep swell Comes on the wind?--It is an empire’s knell, Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night! For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite, With a funereal voice of solitary might.

LXII.

Again, and yet again! A startling power In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear, Full on remembrance, each eventful hour Checkering life’s crowded path. They fill the air When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear A mien like joy’s; and when your brides are led From their paternal homes; and when the glare Of burning streets on midnight’s cloud waves red, And when the silent house receives its guest--the dead.[217]

LXIII.

But to those tones what thrilling soul was given On that last night of empire! As a spell Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven, On the chill’d heart of multitudes they fell. Each cadence seem’d a prophecy, to tell Of sceptres passing from their line away, An angel-watcher’s long and sad farewell, The requiem of a faith’s departing sway, A throne’s, a nation’s dirge, a wail for earth’s decay.

LXIV.

Again, and yet again!--from yon high dome, Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they Who never more, to rest in mortal home, Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day, Th’ imperial band, in close and arm’d array, As men that from the sword must part no more, Take through the midnight streets their silent way, Within their ancient temple to adore, Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are o’er.

LXV.

It is the hour of sleep: yet few the eyes O’er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed In the beleaguer’d city. Stillness lies, With moonlight, o’er the hills and waters spread. But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread, The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet The last brave Constantine; and yet the tread Of many steps is in the echoing street, And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why they meet.

LXVI.

Their homes are luxury’s yet; why pour they thence With a dim terror in each restless eye? Hath the dread car which bears the pestilence, In darkness, with its heavy wheels roll’d by, And rock’d their palaces, as if on high The whirlwind pass’d? From couch and joyous board Hath the fierce phantom beckon’d them to die![218] --No!--what are these?--for them a cup is pour’d More dark with wrath,--man comes--the spoiler and the sword.

LXVII.

Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch-light throws On some wild form, amidst the living mass, Hues, deeply red like lava’s, which disclose What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes! Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp’d in prayer, Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward shows Betokening inward agonies, were there: Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair!

LXVIII.

But high above that scene, in bright repose, And beauty borrowing from the torches’ gleams A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, But all instinct with loftier being seems, Pale, grand, colossal: lo! th’ embodied dreams Of yore!--Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought, Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes Of mortal passion! Yet ’twas man that caught, And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought!

LXIX.

Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome? That Rome which witness’d, in her sceptred days, So much of noble death? When shrine and dome, Midst clouds of incense, rang with choral lays, As the long triumph pass’d, with all its blaze Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne, O sovereign forms! concentring all the rays Of the soul’s lightnings?--did ye not adorn The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on, and to mourn?

LXX.

Hath it been thus?--Or did ye grace the halls, Once peopled by the mighty? Haply there, In your still grandeur, from the pillar’d walls Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair,[219] Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare The stroke of its deliverance, midst the glow Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air, The sound of lyres, the flower-crown’d goblet’s flow. --Behold again!--high hearts make nobler offerings now!

LXXI.

The stately fane is reach’d--and at its gate The warriors pause. On life’s tumultuous tide A stillness falls, while he whom regal state Hath mark’d from all, to be more sternly tried By suffering, speaks: each ruder voice hath died, While his implores forgiveness!--“If there be One midst your throngs, my people! whom, in pride Or passion, I have wrong’d; such pardon free As mortals hope from heaven, accord that man to me!”

LXXII.

But all is silence; and a gush of tears Alone replies! He hath not been of those Who, fear’d by many, pine in secret fears Of all; th’ environ’d but by slaves and foes, To whom day brings not safety, night repose, For they have heard the voice cry, “Sleep no more!” Of them he hath not been, nor such as close Their hearts to misery, till the time is o’er, When it speaks low and kneels th’ oppressor’s throne before!

LXXIII.

He hath been loved. But who may trust the love Of a degenerate race?--in other mould Are cast the free and lofty hearts that prove Their faith through fiery trials. Yet behold, And call him not forsaken!--thoughts untold Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread Moves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfold Within its precincts! Isles and seas have shed Their gorgeous treasures there, around th’ imperial dead.

LXXIV.

’Tis a proud vision--that most regal pile Of ancient days! The lamps are streaming bright From its rich altar, down each pillar’d aisle, Whose vista fades in dimness; but the sight Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light Develops on those walls the thousand dyes Of the vein’d marbles, which array their height, And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes,[220] Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies.

LXXV.

But gaze thou not on these; though heaven’s own hues In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie-- Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse Arch, column, rich mosaic--pass thou by The stately tombs, where Eastern Cæsars lie, Beneath their trophies: pause not here; for know, A deeper source of all sublimity Lives in man’s bosom, than the world can show In nature or in art--above, around, below.

LXXVI.

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy gaze) The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone: Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze; Those heads unhelm’d, those kneeling forms alone, Thus bow’d, look glorious here. The light is thrown Full from the shrine on one, a nation’s lord, A sufferer! but his task shall soon be done-- E’en now, as Faith’s mysterious cup is pour’d, See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, restored!

LXXVII.

The rite is o’er. The band of brethren part, Once--and but once--to meet on earth again! Each, in the strength of a collected heart, To dare what man may dare--and know ’tis vain! The rite is o’er: and thou, majestic fane! The glory is departed from thy brow!-- Be clothed with dust!--the Christian’s farewell strain Hath died within these walls; thy Cross must bow, Thy kingly tombs be spoil’d, the golden shrines laid low!

LXXVIII.

The streets grow still and lonely--and the star, The last bright lingerer in the path of morn, Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war, As if young Hope with twilight’s ray were born, Awhile the city sleeps: her throngs, o’erworn With fears and watchings, to their homes retire. Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn With battle-sounds;[221] the winds in sighs expire, And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam’s fire.

LXXIX.

The city sleeps! Ay! on the combat’s eve, And by the scaffold’s brink, and midst the swell Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve Thus from her cares. The brave have slumber’d well, And e’en the fearful, in their dungeon cell, Chain’d between life and death. Such rest be thine, For conflicts wait thee still!--yet who can tell, In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine Full on thy spirit’s dream!--Sleep, weary Constantine!

LXXX.

Doth the blast rise?--the clouded east is red, As if a storm were gathering; and I hear What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread, The soft and smother’d step of those that fear Surprise from ambush’d foes. Hark! yet more near It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound; A rustling, as of winds, where boughs are sere-- A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground From far; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound!

LXXXI.

Wake! wake! They come from sea and shore ascending In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day! Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending, Through tower and wall, a path for their array? Hark! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey, With its wild voice, to which the seas reply; And the earth rocks beneath their engines’ sway, And the far hills repeat their battle-cry, Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky!

LXXXII.

They fail not now, the generous band, that long Have ranged their swords around a falling throne; Still in those fearless men the walls are strong, Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own! --Shall those high energies be vainly shown? No! from their towers th’ invading tide is driven Back, like the Red Sea waves, when God had blown With his strong winds! The dark-brow’d ranks are riven:[222] Shout, warriors of the Cross!--for victory is of Heaven!

LXXXIII.

Stand firm! Again the Crescent host is rushing, And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep, With all their fires and darts, though blood is gushing Fast o’er their sides, as rivers to the deep. Stand firm!--there yet is hope; th’ ascent is steep, And from on high no shaft descends in vain. --But those that fall swell up the mangled heap, In the red moat, the dying and the slain, And o’er that fearful bridge the assailants mount again!

LXXXIV.

Oh! the dread mingling, in that awful hour, Of all terrific sounds!--the savage tone Of the wild horn, the cannon’s peal, the shower Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o’erthrown, The deep dull tambour’s beat--man’s voice alone Is there unheard! Ye may not catch the cry Of trampled thousands--prayer, and shriek, and moan, All drown’d, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by, But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory.

LXXXV.

War-clouds have wrapt the city!--through their dun O’erloaded canopy, at times a blaze As of an angry storm-presaging sun, From the Greek fire shoots up![223] and lightning rays Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the haze, And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air! --Ay! this is in the compass of our gaze, But fearful things unknown, untold, are there-- Workings of wrath and death, and anguish, and despair!

LXXXVI.

Woe, shame and woe!--A chief, a warrior flies, A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale! --Oh God! that Nature’s passing agonies Thus, o’er the spark which dies not, should prevail! Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter’d mail, And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa’s fallen son![224] Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail! --But there are tortures which thou canst not shun: The spirit is their prey--thy pangs are but begun!

LXXXVII.

Oh, happy in their homes, the noble dead! The seal is set on their majestic fame; Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they shed, Fate has no power to dim their stainless name! They may not, in one bitter moment, shame Long glorious years. From many a lofty stem Fall graceful flowers, and eagle hearts grow tame, And stars drop, fading from the diadem; But the bright past is theirs--there is no change for them!

LXXXVIII.

Where art thou, Constantine?--where death is reaping His sevenfold harvest!--where the stormy light, Fast as th’ artillery’s thunderbolts are sweeping, Throws meteor-bursts o’er battle’s noonday-night! Where the towers rock and crumble from their height, As to the earthquake, and the engines ply Like red Vesuvio; and where human might Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high, While scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply.

LXXXIX.

Where art thou, Constantine?--where Christian blood Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain! Where faith and valour perish in the flood, Whose billows, rising o’er their bosoms, gain Dark strength each moment; where the gallant slain Around the banner of the Cross lie strew’d Thick as the vine-leaves on th’ autumnal plain; Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued, And through the breach press on th’ o’erwhelming multitude.

XC.

Now is he battling midst a host alone, As the last cedar stems awhile the sway Of mountain storms, whose fury hath o’erthrown Its forest-brethren in their green array! And he hath cast his purple robe away, With its imperial bearings, that his sword An iron ransom from the chain may pay, And win, what haply fate may yet accord, A soldier’s death--the all now left an empire’s lord!

XCI.

Search for him now where bloodiest lie the files Which once were men, the faithful and the brave! Search for him now where loftiest rise the piles Of shatter’d helms and shields which could not save, And crests and banners never more to wave In the free winds of heaven! He is of those O’er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave, And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close, Yet wake them not!--so deep their long and last repose!

XCII.

Woe to the vanquish’d!--thus it hath been still Since Time’s first march! Hark, hark, a people’s cry! Ay, now the conquerors in the streets fulfil Their task of wrath! In vain the victims fly; Hark! now each piercing tone of agony Blends in the city’s shriek! The lot is cast. Slaves! ’twas your choice thus, rather thus, to die, Than where the warrior’s blood flows warm and fast, And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the last!

XCIII.

Oh! well doth freedom battle! Men have made, E’en midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand, And on the floors, where once their children play’d, And by the hearths, round which their household band At evening met; ay, struggling hand to hand, Within the very chambers of their sleep, There have they taught the spoilers of the land In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep, To guard free homes! But ye!--kneel, tremblers! kneel, and weep!

XCIV.

’Tis eve--the storm hath died, the valiant rest Low on their shields; the days fierce work is done, And blood-stain’d seas and burning towers attest Its fearful deeds. An empire’s race is run! Sad, midst his glory, looks the parting sun Upon the captive city. Hark! a swell (Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won) Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell The Soldan comes within the Cæsars’ halls to dwell!

XCV.

Yes! with the peal of cymbal and of gong, He comes: the Moslem treads those ancient halls! But all is stillness there, as death had long Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. And half that silence of the grave appals The conqueror’s heart. Ay! thus, with triumph’s hour, Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls A thought of those impervious clouds that lower O’er grandeur’s path, a sense of some far mightier Power!

XCVI.

“The owl upon Afrasiab’s towers hath sung Her watch-song,[225] and around th’ imperial throne The spider weaves his web!”--Still darkly hung That verse of omen, as a prophet’s tone, O’er his flush’d spirit. Years on years have flown To prove its truth: kings pile their domes in air, That the coil’d snake may bask on sculptured stone, And nations clear the forest, to prepare For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings there!

XCVII.

But thou! that on thy ramparts proudly dying, As a crown’d leader in such hours should die, Upon thy pyre of shiver’d spears art lying, With the heavens o’er thee for a canopy, And banners for thy shroud! No tear, no sigh, Shall mingle with thy dirge; for thou art now Beyond vicissitude! Lo! rear’d on high, The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow-- But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, art thou!

XCVIII.

“After life’s fitful fever thou sleep’st well!” We may not mourn thee! Sceptred chiefs, from whom The earth received her destiny, and fell Before them trembling--to a sterner doom Have oft been call’d. For them the dungeon’s gloom, With its cold starless midnight, hath been made More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb, Without a tomb’s repose, the chain hath weigh’d Their very soul to dust, with each high power decay’d.

XCIX.

Or in the eye of thousands they have stood, To meet the stroke of death; but not like thee! From bonds and scaffolds hath appeal’d their blood, But thou didst fall unfetter’d, arm’d, and free, And kingly to the last! And if it be, That from the viewless world, whose marvels none Return to tell, a spirit’s eye can see The things of earth: still may’st thou hail the sun, Which o’er thy land shall dawn, when freedom’s fight is won!

C.

And the hour comes, in storm! A light is glancing Far through the forest god’s Arcadian shades! --’Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing, Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades. A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades, Round dark Cithæron and by Delphi’s steep; --’Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids, Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep, Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding deep!

CI.

Arms glitter on the mountains, which of old Awoke to freedom’s first heroic strain, And by the streams, once crimson, as they roll’d The Persian helm and standard to the main; And the blue waves of Salamis again Thrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply, With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain, Far as Platæa’s, where the mighty lie, Who crown’d so proudly there the bowl of liberty![226]

CII.

Bright land, with glory mantled o’er by song! Land of the vision-peopled hills, and streams, And fountains, whose deserted banks along Still the soft air with inspiration teems; Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be themes To verse for ever; and of ruin’d shrines, That scarce look desolate beneath such beams, As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines? --When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath their vines?

CIII.

Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor fear! --Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave O’er Mantinea’s earth?--doth Pindus rear His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave? And is there yet on Marathon a grave? And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line By Sparta’s ruins? And shall man, a slave, Bow’d to the dust, amid such scenes repine? --If e’er a soil was mark’d for freedom’s step, ’tis thine!

CIV.

Wash from that soil the stains with battle-showers. --Beneath Sophia’s dome the Moslem prays, The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers, In the Comneni’s halls the Tartar sways:[227] But not for long!--the spirit of those days, When the three hundred made their funeral pile Of Asia’s dead, is kindling, like the rays Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian isle.

CV.

If then ’tis given thee to arise in might, Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the chain, Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright! The cross of victory should not know a stain! So may that faith once more supremely reign, Through which we lift our spirits from the dust! And deem not, e’en when virtue dies in vain, She dies forsaken; but repose our trust On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable--but just.

[205] The army of Mohammed the Second, at the siege of Constantinople, was thronged with fanatics of all sects and nations, who were not enrolled amongst the regular troops.

The Sultan himself marched upon the city from Adrianople; but his army must have been principally collected in the Asiatic provinces, which he had previously visited.

[206]

“Huc vina, et unguenta, et nimium breves Flores amœnæ ferre jube rosæ.”--Horace.

[207] The castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned in the Byzantine history, as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as an edifice which contributed materially to the defence of Constantinople; and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in the later periods of the empire. For a description of this building, see Pouqueville’s Travels.

[208] An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying in procession, at the funerals of their great men, the images of their ancestors.

[209] The following was the ceremony of consecration with which Decius devoted himself in battle:--He was ordered by Valerius, the Pontifex Maximus, to quit his military habit, and put on the robe he wore in the senate. Valerius then covered his head with a veil, commanded him to put forth his hand under his robe to his chin, and, standing with both feet upon a javelin, to repeat these words:--“O Janus, Jupiter, Mars, Romulus, Bellona! and ye, Lares and Novensiles! All you heroes who dwell in heaven! and all ye gods who rule over us and our enemies--especially ye gods of hell!--I honour you, invoke you, and humbly entreat you to prosper the arms of the Romans, and to transfer all fear and terror from them to their enemies; and I do, for the safety of the Roman people, and their legions, devote myself, and with myself the army and auxiliaries of the enemy, to the infernal gods, and the goddess of the earth.” Decius then, girding his robe around them, mounted his horse, and rode full speed into the thickest of the enemy’s battalions. The Latins were, for a while, thunderstruck at this spectacle; but at length recovering themselves, they discharged a shower of darts, under which the Consul fell.

[210] See Gibbon’s animated description of the arrival of five Christian ships, with men and provisions, for the succour of the besieged, not many days before the fall of Constantinople.--Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. xii. p. 215.

[211] “The summits of the lofty rocks in the Carnatic, particularly about the Ghauts, are sometimes covered with the bamboo tree, which grows in thick clumps, and is of such uncommon aridity that, in the sultry season of the year, the friction occasioned by a strong dry wind will literally produce sparks of fire, which, frequently setting the woods in a blaze, exhibit to the spectator stationed in a valley surrounded by rocks, a magnificent though imperfect circle of fire.”--Notes to Kindersley’s Specimens of Hindoo Literature.

[212] Those who steer their westward course through the middle of the Propontis may at once descry the high lands of Thrace and Bithynia, and never lose sight of the lofty summit of Mount Olympus, covered with eternal snows.--Decline and Fall, &c. vol. iii. p. 8.

[213] Mohammed II. was greatly addicted to the study of astrology. His calculations in this science led him to fix upon the morning of the 29th of May, as the fortunate hour for a general attack upon the city.

[214] Constantine Palæologus was betrothed to a Georgian princess, and the very spring which witnessed the fall of Constantinople had been fixed upon as the time for conveying the imperial bride to that city.

[215] Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his last noble stand for the liberties, or rather the honour, of a falling empire, were foreigners, and chiefly Italians.

[216] This and the next line are an almost literal translation from a beautiful song of Goethe’s:--

“Kennst du das land, wo die zitronen bluhn Mit dunkeln laub die gold orangen gluhn?” etc.

[217] The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplified in Schiller’s poem, “Das Lied der Glocke.”

[218] It is said to be a Greek superstition that the plague is announced by the heavy rolling of an invisible chariot, heard in the streets at midnight; and also by the appearance of a gigantic spectre, who summons the devoted person by name.

[219] Many instances of such banquets, given and shared by persons resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient history. That of Vibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most memorable.

[220] For a minute description of the marbles, jaspers, and porphyries, employed in the construction of St Sophia, see The Decline and Fall, &c., vol. vii. p. 120.

[221] The assault of the city took place at daybreak, and the Turks were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which had also been commanded, on pain of death, during the preceding night. This circumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, in her tragedy of Constantine Palæologus:--

“Silent shall be the march; nor drum, nor trump, Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe Our near approach betray: silent and soft As the pard’s velvet foot on Libya’s sands, Slow stealing with crouch’d shoulders on her prey.” Constantine Palæologus, act iv.

“The march and labour of thousands” must, however, as Gibbon observes, “have inevitably produced a strange confusion of discordant clamours, which reached the ears of the watchmen on the towers.”

[222] “After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still maintained and preserved their advantage,” says Gibbon. The strenuous exertions of the janizaries first turned the fortune of the day.

[223] “A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Constantinople is the union of the ancient and modern artillery. The bullet and the battering-ram were directed against the same wall; nor had the discovery of gunpowder superseded the use of the liquid and inextinguishable fire.”--Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii., p. 213.

[224] “The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascribed to the bullet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John Justiniani, (a Genoese chief.) The sight of his blood and exquisite pain appalled the courage of the chief, whose arms and counsels were the firmest rampart of the city.”--Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 229.

[225] Mohammed II., on entering, after his victory, the palace of the Byzantine emperors, was strongly impressed with the silence and desolation which reigned within its precincts. “A melancholy reflection on the vicissitudes of human greatness forced itself on his mind, and he repeated an elegant distich of Persian poetry: ‘The spider has wove his web in the imperial palace, and the owl hath sung her watch-song on the towers of Afrasiab.’”--Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 240.

[226] One of the ceremonies by which the battle of Platæa was annually commemorated was, to crown with wine a cup called the Bowl of Liberty, which was afterwards poured forth in libation.

[227] The Comneni were amongst the most distinguished of the families who filled the Byzantine throne in the declining years of the Eastern Empire.

ANNOTATION ON “THE LAST CONSTANTINE.”

[It may seem necessary to mention that “The Last Constantine” first appeared in a volume (Murray, 1823) along with “Belshazzar’s Feast,” the “Siege of Valencia,” and some lyrical miscellanies.

“The present publication appears to us, (Dr Morehead in Constable’s Magazine, Sept. 1823,) in every respect superior to any thing Mrs Hemans has yet written: more powerful in particular passages--more interesting in the narrative part--as pathetic and delicate in the reflective--as elaborately faultless in its versification--as copious in imagery. Of the longer poems, ‘The Last Constantine’ is our favourite.... The leading features of Constantine’s character seem to be taken from the unequal, but, on the whole, admirable play of Constantine Palæologus, by the gifted rival of our authoress, Joanna Baillie; and the picture of that enduring and Christian courage which, in the midst of a ruined city and a fallen state, sustained the last of the Cæsars, when all earthly hope and help had failed him, is eminently touching and poetical. The following stanzas appear to us particularly beautiful:--

‘Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, Sounds in the air, of battle,’ etc.

The following stanzas, too, in which the leading idea of Constantine’s character is still more fully brought out, are likewise excellent:--

‘It was a sad and solemn task to hold Their midnight watch on that beleaguer’d wall,’ etc.

These are splendid passages, justly conceived, admirably expressed, full of eloquence and melody; and the poem contains many others equally beautiful. As we have already hinted, the story might have been better told--or rather, there is scarcely any story at all; but the reader is borne down the stream of pensive reflection so gently, and so easily, that he scarcely perceives the want of it.”]

THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS;

OR, THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI.

[It was in the year 1308 that the Swiss rose against the tyranny of the bailiffs appointed over them by Albert of Austria. The field called the Grutli, at the foot of the Seelisberg, and near the boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was fixed upon by three spirited yeomen, Walter Furst, (the father-in-law of William Tell,) Werner Stauffacher, and Erni (or Arnold) Melchthal, as their place of meeting to deliberate on the accomplishment of their projects.

“Hither came Furst and Melchthal, along secret paths over the heights, and Stauffacher in his boat across the Lake of the Four Cantons. On the night preceding the 11th of November 1307, they met here, each with ten associates, men of approved worth; and while at this solemn hour they were wrapt in the contemplation that on their success depended the fate of their whole posterity, Werner, Walter, and Arnold held up their hands to heaven, and in the name of the Almighty, who has created man to an inalienable degree of freedom, swore jointly and strenuously to defend that freedom. The thirty associates heard the oath with awe; and with uplifted hands attested the same God, and all his saints, that they were firmly bent on offering up their lives for the defence of their injured liberty. They then calmly agreed on their future proceedings, and for the present each returned to his hamlet.”--Planta’s History of the Helvetic Confederacy.

On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded in throwing off the Austrian yoke, and “it is well attested,” says the same author, “that not one drop of blood was shed on this memorable occasion, nor had one proprietor to lament the loss of a claim, a privilege, or an inch of land. The Swiss met on the succeeding Sabbath, and once more confirmed by oath their ancient, and (as they fondly named it) their perpetual league.”]

I.

’Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn’s wild horn,[228] Like a wind’s voice, had pour’d its last long tone, Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods borne, To the low cabins of the glens made known That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone By cliff and pine bridge to their place of rest; The chamois slumber’d, for the chase was done; His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press’d, And the rock-eagle couch’d high on his cloudy nest.

II.

Did the land sleep? The woodman’s axe had ceased Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane; The grapes were gather’d in; the vintage feast Was closed upon the hills, the reaper’s strain Hush’d by the streams; the year was in its wane, The night in its mid watch--it was a time E’en mark’d and hallow’d unto slumber’s reign; But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime, And o’er his white Alps moved the spirit of the clime.

III.

For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread, High and unmark’d by mortal footstep lay; And there, where torrents, mid the ice-caves fed, Burst in their joy of light and sound away; And there, where freedom, as in scornful play, Had hung man’s dwellings midst the realms of air, O’er cliffs the very birthplace of the day-- Oh! who would dream that tyranny could dare To lay her withering hand on God’s bright works e’en there?

IV.

Yet thus it was. Amidst the fleet streams gushing To bring down rainbows o’er their sparry cell, And the glad heights, through mist and tempest rushing Up where the sun’s red fire-glance earliest fell, And the fresh pastures where the herd’s sweet bell Recall’d such life as Eastern patriarchs led; There peasant men their free thoughts might not tell Save in the hour of shadows and of dread, And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt’s dull stealthy tread.

V.

But in a land of happy shepherd homes, On its green hills in quiet joy reclining, With their bright hearth-fires, midst the twilight glooms, From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shining-- A land of legends and wild songs, entwining Their memory with all memories loved and blest-- In such a land there dwells a power, combining The strength of many a calm but fearless breast; And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its rest!

VI.

A sound went up--the wave’s dark sleep was broken-- On Uri’s lake was heard a midnight oar-- Of man’s brief course a troubled moment’s token Th’ eternal waters to their barriers bore; And then their gloom a flashing image wore Of torch-fires streaming out o’er crag and wood, And the wild falcon’s wing was heard to soar In startled haste--and by that moonlight flood, A band of patriot men on Grutli’s verdure stood.

VII.

They stood in arms: the wolf-spear and the bow Had waged their war on things of mountain race; Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe? --Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase, True hearts in fight, were gather’d on that place Of secret council. Not for fame or spoil So met those men in Heaven’s majestic face: To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil, The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil.

VIII.

O’er their low pastoral valleys might the tide Of years have flow’d, and still, from sire to son, Their names and records on the green earth died, As cottage lamps, expiring one by one In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun To hush all sound. But silent on its height, The snow mass, full of death, while ages run Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light, Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding might.

IX.

So were they roused. Th’ invading step had pass’d Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door, Which well had stood against the Fohnwind’s blast,[229] Could bar Oppression from their home no more. Why, what had she to do where all things wore Wild grandeur’s impress? In the storm’s free way, How dared she lift her pageant crest before Th’ enduring and magnificent array Of sovereign Alps, that wing’d their eagles with the day?

X.

This might not long be borne: the tameless hills Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling, Fraught with His name whose awful presence fills Their deep lone places, and for ever telling That He hath made man free! and they, whose dwelling Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear; The weight of sufferance from their hearts repelling, They rose--the forester--the mountaineer-- Oh! what hath earth more strong than the good peasant spear?

XI.

Sacred be Grutli’s field! Their vigil keeping Through many a blue and starry summer night-- There, while the sons of happier lands were sleeping, Had those brave Switzers met; and in the sight Of the just God, who pours forth burning might To gird the oppress’d, had given their deep thoughts way, And braced their spirits for the patriot fight, With lovely images of homes that lay Bower’d midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent spray.

XII.

Now had endurance reach’d its bounds! They came With courage set in each bright earnest eye, The day, the signal, and the hour to name, When they should gather on their hills to die, Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry For the land’s freedom. ’Twas a scene combining All glory in itself--the solemn sky, The stars, the waves their soften’d light enshrining, And man’s high soul supreme o’er mighty Nature shining.

XIII.

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien, Breathing their souls in voices firm but low-- As if the spirit of the hour and scene, With the woods’ whisper and the waves’ sweet flow, Had temper’d in their thoughtful hearts the glow Of all indignant feeling. To the breath Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow, E’en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.

XIV.

And three, that seem’d as chieftains of the band, Were gather’d in the midst on that lone shore By Uri’s lake. A father of the land,[230] One on his brow the silent record wore Of many days, whose shadows had pass’d o’er His path among the hills, and quench’d the dreams Of youth with sorrow. Yet from memory’s lore Still his life’s evening drew its loveliest gleams, For he had walk’d with God, beside the mountain streams.

XV.

And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well To their last pillow silently have gone, As melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tell How life may task the spirit? He was one Who from its morn a freeman’s work had done, And reap’d his harvest, and his vintage press’d, Fearless of wrong; and now, at set of sun, He bow’d not to his years, for on the breast Of a still chainless land he deem’d it much to rest.

XVI.

But for such holy rest strong hands must toil, Strong hearts endure! By that pale elder’s side, Stood one that seem’d a monarch of the soil, Serene and stately in his manhood’s pride-- Werner,[231] the brave and true! If men have died Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep, He was a mate for such. The voice that cried Within his breast, “Arise!” came still and deep From his far home, that smiled e’en then in moonlight sleep.

XVII.

It was a home to die for! As it rose Through its vine foliage, sending forth a sound Of mirthful childhood, o’er the green repose And laughing sunshine of the pastures round; And he, whose life to that sweet spot was bound, Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye, And set his free step firmer on the ground, When o’er his soul its melodies went by, As, through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy.

XVIII.

But who was he that on his hunting-spear Lean’d, with a prouder and more fiery bearing? His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear, Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing That which they may not tame--a soul declaring War against earth’s oppressors. Midst that throng Of other mould he seem’d, and loftier daring, One whose blood swept high impulses along, One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike song--

XIX.

A memory on the mountains!--one to stand, When the hills echo’d with the deepening swell Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land, And in some rock defile, or savage dell, Array her peasant children to repel Th’ invader, sending arrows for his chains! Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell, Her banner with a smile--for through his veins The joy of danger flow’d, as torrents to the plains.

XX.

There was at times a wildness in the light Of his quick-flashing eye; a something born Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright, And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn! It well might be!--Young Erni’s step had worn[232] The mantling snows on their most regal steeps, And track’d the lynx above the clouds of morn, And follow’d where the flying chamois leaps Across the dark blue rifts, th’ unfathom’d glacier deeps.

XXI.

He was a creature of the Alpine sky, A being whose bright spirit had been fed Midst the crown’d heights of joy and liberty, And thoughts of power. He knew each path which led To the rock’s treasure caves, whose crystal shed Soft light o’er secret fountains. At the tone Of his loud horn the Lammer-Geyer[233] had spread A startled wing--for oft that peal had blown Where the free cataract’s voice was wont to sound alone.

XXII.

His step had track’d the waste, his soul had stirr’d The ancient solitudes--his voice had told Of wrongs to call down heaven.[234] That tale was heard In Hasli’s dales, and where the shepherds’ fold Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold On the bleak Oberland; and where the light Of day’s last footsteps bathes in burning gold Great Righi’s cliffs; and where Mount Pilate’s height Casts o’er his glassy lake the darkness of his might.

XXIII.

Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter pass’d, And, from the bosom of the wilderness, There leapt a spirit and a power to cast The weight of bondage down--and bright and fast, As the clear waters, joyously and free, Burst from the desert rock, it rush’d at last, Through the far valleys; till the patriot three Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest-Sea.[235]

XXIV.

They link’d their hands, they pledged their stainless faith In the dread presence of attesting Heaven, They bound their hearts to suffering and to death, With the severe and solemn transport given To bless such vows. How nobly man had striven, How man might strive, and vainly strive, they knew, And call’d upon their God, whose arm had riven The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt’s might o’erthrew.

XXV.

They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys lay Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted Into the bright mid air, had caught from day A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted, Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted, And full of hope. Not many suns had worn Their setting glory, ere from slumber started Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born-- So far was heard the blast of freedom’s echoing horn!

XXVI.

The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came rending The frozen stillness which around them hung; From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending Gave answer, till the sky’s blue hollow rung; And the flame-signals through the midnight sprung From the Surennen rocks, like banners streaming To the far Seelisberg; whence light was flung On Grutli’s field, till all the red lake gleaming Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour seeming.

XXVII.

And the winds toss’d each summit’s blazing crest, As a host’s plumage; and the giant pines, Fell’d where they waved o’er crag and eagle’s nest, Heap’d up the flames. The clouds grew fiery signs, As o’er a city’s burning towers and shrines, Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown’d and bright, In Werner’s dwelling flow’d; through leafless vines From Walter’s hearth stream’d forth the festive light, And Erni’s blind old sire gave thanks to heaven that night.

XXVIII.

Then on the silence of the snows there lay A Sabbath’s quiet sunshine--and its bell Fill’d the hush’d air awhile, with lonely sway; For the stream’s voice was chain’d by winter’s spell, The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and dell Rang forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee Peal’d from the mountain churches, with a swell Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea-- For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps were free!

[228] Senn, the name given to a herdsman among the Swiss Alps.

[229] Fohnwind, the south-east wind, which frequently lays waste the country before it.

[230] Walter Furst, the father-in-law of Tell.

[231] Werner Stauffacher, who had been urged by his wife to rouse and unite his countrymen for the deliverance of Switzerland.

[232] Erni, Arnold Melchthal.

[233] The Lammer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine eagle.

[234] The eyes of his aged father had been put out by the orders of the Austrian governor.

[235] Forest-Sea--the lake of the Four Cantons is frequently so called.

SONGS OF THE CID.[236]

THE CID’S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE.

With sixty knights in his gallant train, Went forth the Campeador of Spain; For wild sierras and plains afar, He left the lands of his own Bivar.[237]

To march o’er field, and to watch in tent, From his home in good Castile he went; To the wasting siege and the battle’s van, --For the noble Cid was a banish’d man!

Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze play’d, And his native streams wild music made, And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay, When for march and combat he took his way.

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took, And he turn’d his steed for a parting look, For a parting look at his own fair towers, --Oh! the exile’s heart hath weary hours!

The pennons were spread, and the band array’d, But the Cid at the threshold a moment stay’d-- It was but a moment; the halls were lone, And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.

There was not a steed in the empty stall, Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall, Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door, Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.[238]

Then a dim tear swell’d to the warrior’s eye, As the voice of his native groves went by; And he said--“My foemen their wish have won: Now the will of God be in all things done!”

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer, And the winds of the morning swept off the tear, And the fields of his glory lay distant far, --He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar!

[236] These ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the “wild and wonderful” traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and the ancient poem of the Cid.

[237] Bivar, the supposed birthplace of the Cid, was a castle, about two leagues from Burgos.

[238]

“Tornaba la cabeza, e estabalos catando: Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin cañados, Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin mantos: E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados. Sospirò mio Cid.” Poem of the Cid.

THE CID’S DEATHBED.

It was an hour of grief and fear Within Valencia’s walls, When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear Above her marble halls.

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes, And steps of hurrying feet, Where the Zambra’s[239] notes were wont to rise, Along the sunny street.

It was an hour of fear and grief On bright Valencia’s shore, For Death was busy with her chief, The noble Campeador.

The Moor-king’s barks were on the deep, With sounds and signs of war; But the Cid was passing to his sleep, In the silent Alcazar.

No moan was heard through the towers of state, No weeper’s aspect seen, But by the couch Ximena sate, With pale yet steadfast mien.[240]

Stillness was round the leader’s bed, Warriors stood mournful nigh, And banners, o’er his glorious head, Were drooping heavily.

And feeble grew the conquering hand, And cold the valiant breast; He had fought the battles of the land, And his hour was come to rest.

What said the Ruler of the field? --His voice is faint and low; The breeze that creeps o’er his lance and shield Hath louder accents now.

“Raise ye no cry, and let no moan Be made when I depart; The Moor must hear no dirge’s tone; Be ye of mighty heart!

“Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain From your walls ring far and shrill; And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain Shall grant you victory still.

“And gird my form with mail-array, And set me on my steed; So go ye forth on your funeral-way, And God shall give you speed.

“Go with the dead in the front of war, All arm’d with sword and helm,[241] And march by the camp of King Bucar, For the good Castilian realm.

“And let me slumber in the soil Which gave my fathers birth; I have closed my day of battle-toil, And my course is done on earth.”

--Now wave, ye glorious banners! wave! Through the lattice a wind sweeps by, And the arms, o’er the deathbed of the brave, Send forth a hollow sigh.

Now wave, ye banners of many a fight! As the fresh wind o’er you sweeps; The wind and the banners fall hush’d as night; The Campeador--he sleeps!

Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn, And swell out the trumpet’s blast, Till the notes prevail o’er the voice of wail, For the noble Cid hath pass’d!

[239] The Zambra, a Moorish dance. When Valencia was taken by the Cid, many of the Moorish families chose to remain there, and reside under his government.

[240] The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently alluded to in the romances.

[241]

“Banderas antiguas, tristes Be victorias un tiempo amadas, Tremolando estan al viento Y lloran aunque no hablan,” &c.

Herder’s translation of these romances (Der Cid, nach Spanischen Romanzen besungen) are remarkable for their spirit and scrupulous fidelity.

THE CID’S FUNERAL PROCESSION.

The Moor had beleaguer’d Valencia’s towers, And lances gleam’d up through her citron bowers, And the tents of the desert had girt her plain, And camels were trampling the vines of Spain; For the Cid was gone to rest.

There were men from wilds where the death-wind sweeps, There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps, There were bows from sands where the ostrich runs, For the shrill horn of Afric had call’d her sons To the battles of the West.

The midnight bell, o’er the dim seas heard, Like the roar of waters, the air had stirr’d; The stars were shining o’er tower and wave, And the camp lay hush’d as a wizard’s cave; But the Christians woke that night.

They rear’d the Cid on his barded steed, Like a warrior mail’d for the hour of need, And they fix’d the sword in the cold right hand Which had fought so well for his father’s land, And the shield from his neck hung bright.

There was arming heard in Valencia’s halls, There was vigil kept on the rampart walls; Stars had not faded nor clouds turn’d red, When the knights had girded the noble dead, And the burial train moved out.

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, Was the still death-march of the host begun; With a silent step went the cuirass’d bands, Like a lion’s tread on the burning sands; And they gave no battle-shout.

When the first went forth, it was midnight deep, In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep; When the last through the city’s gates had gone, O’er tent and rampart the bright day shone, With a sun-burst from the sea.

There were knights five hundred went arm’d before, And Bermudez the Cid’s green standard bore;[242] To its last fair field, with the break of morn, Was the glorious banner in silence borne, On the glad wind streaming free.

And the Campeador came stately then, Like a leader circled with steel-clad men! The helmet was down o’er the face of the dead, But his steed went proud, by a warrior led, For he knew that the Cid was there.

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword, And Ximena following her noble lord; Her eye was solemn, her step was slow, But there rose not a sound of war or woe, Not a whisper on the air.

The halls in Valencia were still and lone, The churches were empty, the masses done; There was not a voice through the wide streets far, Nor a footfall heard in the Alcazar, --So the burial-train moved out.

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, Was the still death-march of the host begun; With a silent step went the cuirass’d bands, Like a lion’s tread on the burning sands; And they gave no battle-shout.

But the deep hills peal’d with a cry ere long, When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng! --With a sudden flash of the lance and spear, And a charge of the war-steed in full career, It was Alvar Fañez came![243]

He that was wrapt with no funeral shroud, Had pass’d before like a threatening cloud! And the storm rush’d down on the tented plain, And the Archer-Queen,[244] with her bands, lay slain; For the Cid upheld his fame.

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar, And the Libyan kings who had join’d his war; And their hearts grew heavy, and died away, And their hands could not wield an assagay, For the dreadful things they saw!

For it seem’d where Minaya his onset made, There were seventy thousand knights array’d, All white as the snow on Nevada’s steep, And they came like the foam of a roaring deep --’Twas a sight of fear and awe!

And the crested form of a warrior tall, With a sword of fire, went before them all; With a sword of fire and a banner pale, And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail; He rode in the battle’s van!

There was fear in the path of his dim white horse, There was death in the giant-warrior’s course! Where his banner stream’d with its ghostly light, Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying flight-- For it seem’d not the sword of man!

The field and the river grew darkly red, As the kings and leaders of Afric fled; There was work for the men of the Cid that day! --They were weary at eve, when they ceased to slay, As reapers whose task is done!

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled! The sails of their galleys in haste were spread; But the sea had its share of the Paynim slain, And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain. --So the Cid to his grave pass’d on!

[242] “And while they stood there, they saw the Cid Ruy Diez coming up with three hundred knights; for he had not been in the battle, and they knew his green pennon.”--Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid.

[243] Alvar Fañez Minaya, one of the Cid’s most distinguished warriors.

[244] A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of female warriors, accompanied King Bucar from Africa. Her arrows were so unerring, that she obtained the name of the Star of Archers.

“Una Mora muy gallarda, Gran maestra en el tirar, Con Saetas del Aljava, De los arcos de Turquia Estrella era nombrada, Por la destreza que avia En el herir de la Xara.”

THE CID’S RISING.

’Twas the deep mid-watch of the silent night, And Leon in slumber lay, When a sound went forth in rushing might, Like an army on its way![245] In the stillness of the hour When the dreams of sleep have power, And men forget the day.

Through the dark and lonely streets it went, Till the slumberers woke in dread;-- The sound of a passing armament, With the charger’s stony tread. There was heard no trumpet’s peal, But the heavy tramp of steel, As a host’s to combat led.

Through the dark and lonely streets it pass’d, And the hollow pavement rang, And the towers, as with a sweeping blast, Rock’d to the stormy clang! But the march of the viewless train Went on to a royal fane, Where a priest his night-hymn sang.

There was knocking that shook the marble floor, And a voice at the gate, which said-- “That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador, Was there in his arms array’d; And that with him, from the tomb, Had the Count Gonzalez come With a host, uprisen to aid!

“And they came for the buried king that lay At rest in that ancient fane; For he must be arm’d on the battle-day, With them to deliver Spain!” --Then the march went sounding on, And the Moors by noontide sun Were dust on Tolosa’s plain.

[245] See Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid, p. 352.

GREEK SONGS

THE STORM OF DELPHI.[246]

Far through the Delphian shades An Eastern trumpet rung! And the startled eagle rush’d on high, With a sounding flight through the fiery sky; And banners, o’er the shadowy glades, To the sweeping winds were flung.

Banners, with deep-red gold All waving as a flame, And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed, And a peal of Asia’s war-notes told That in arms the Persian came.

He came with starry gems On his quiver and his crest; With starry gems, at whose heart the day Of the cloudless Orient burning lay, And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems, As onward his thousands press’d.

But a gloom fell o’er their way, And a heavy moan went by! A moan, yet not like the wind’s low swell, When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell, But a mortal murmur of dismay, Or a warrior’s dying sigh!

A gloom fell o’er their way! ’Twas not the shadow cast By the dark pine-boughs, as they cross’d the blue Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue; The air was fill’d with a mightier sway-- But on the spearmen pass’d!

And hollow to their tread Came the echoes of the ground; And banners droop’d, as with dews o’erborne, And the wailing blast of the battle-horn Had an alter’d cadence, dull and dead, Of strange foreboding sound.

But they blew a louder strain, When the steep defiles were pass’d! And afar the crown’d Parnassus rose, To shine through heaven with his radiant snows, And in golden light the Delphian fane Before them stood at last!

In golden light it stood, Midst the laurels gleaming lone; For the Sun-god yet, with a lovely smile, O’er its graceful pillars look’d awhile, Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood Grew deep round its mountain-throne.

And the Persians gave a shout! But the marble walls replied With a clash of steel and a sullen roar Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore, And a savage trumpet’s note peal’d out, Till their hearts for terror died!

On the armour of the god Then a viewless hand was laid; There were helm and spear, with a clanging din, And corslet brought from the shrine within, From the inmost shrine of the dread abode, And before its front array’d.

And a sudden silence fell Through the dim and loaded air! On the wild-bird’s wing and the myrtle spray, And the very founts in their silvery way: With a weight of sleep came down the spell, Till man grew breathless there.

But the pause was broken soon! ’Twas not by song or lyre; For the Delphian maids had left their bowers, And the hearths were lone in the city’s towers, But there burst a sound through the misty noon-- That battle-noon of fire!

It burst from earth and heaven! It roll’d from crag and cloud! For a moment on the mountain-blast With a thousand stormy voices pass’d; And the purple gloom of the sky was riven, When the thunder peal’d aloud.

And the lightnings in their play Flash’d forth, like javelins thrown: Like sun-darts wing’d from the silver bow, They smote the spear and the turban’d brow; And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray, And the banners were struck down!

And the massy oak-boughs crash’d To the fire-bolts from on high, And the forest lent its billowy roar, While the glorious tempest onward bore, And lit the streams, as they foam’d and dash’d, With the fierce rain sweeping by.

Then rush’d the Delphian men On the pale and scatter’d host. Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, They rush’d from the dim Corycian cave; And the singing blast o’er wood and glen Roll’d on, with the spears they toss’d.

There were cries of wild dismay, There were shouts of warrior-glee, There were savage sounds of the tempest’s mirth, That shook the realm of their eagle-birth; But the mount of song, when they died away, Still rose, with its temple, free!

And the Pæan swell’d ere long, Io Pæan! from the fane; Io Pæan! for the war-array On the crown’d Parnassus riven that day! --Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song! With thy bounding streams again.

[246] See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitford’s Greece.

THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.[247]

Before the fiery sun-- The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye, In the free air, and on the war-field won-- Our fathers crown’d the Bowl of Liberty.

Amidst the tombs they stood, The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies, And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood Had steep’d the soil in hues of sacrifice.

They call’d the glorious dead, In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh, And pour’d rich odours o’er their battle-bed, And bade them to their rite of Liberty.

They call’d them from the shades-- The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell How softer light th’ immortal clime pervades, And music floats o’er meads of asphodel.

Then fast the bright-red wine Flow’d to their names who taught the world to die, And made the land’s green turf a living shrine, Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.[248]

So the rejoicing earth Took from her vines again the blood she gave, And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth From the free soil, thus hallow’d to the brave.

We have the battle-fields, The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, We have the founts the purple vintage yields; --When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty?

[247] This and the following piece appeared originally in the New Monthly Magazine.

[248] For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration of the battle of Platæa, see Potter’s Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 389.

THE VOICE OF SCIO.

A voice from Scio’s isle-- A voice of song, a voice of old Swept far as cloud or billow roll’d, And earth was hush’d the while--

The souls of nations woke! Where lies the land whose hills among That voice of victory hath not rung, As if a trumpet spoke?

To sky, and sea, and shore, Of those whose blood on Ilion’s plain Swept from the rivers to the main, A glorious tale it bore.

Still by our sun-bright deep, With all the fame that fiery lay Threw round them, in its rushing way, The sons of battle sleep.

And kings their turf have crown’d! And pilgrims o’er the foaming wave Brought garlands there: so rest the brave, Who thus their bard have found!

A voice from Scio’s isle, A voice as deep hath risen again; As far shall peal its thrilling strain, Where’er our sun may smile!

Let not its tones expire! Such power to waken earth and heaven, And might and vengeance, ne’er was given To mortal song or lyre!

Know ye not whence it comes? --From ruin’d hearths, from burning fanes, From kindred blood on yon red plains, From desolated homes!

’Tis with us through the night! ’Tis on our hills, ’tis in our sky-- Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high O’er the mid-waves of fight!

THE SPARTANS’ MARCH.[249]

[“The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made to the ‘Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.’ The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur.”--Campbell, On the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks.]

’Twas morn upon the Grecian hills, Where peasants dress’d the vines; Sunlight was on Cithæron’s rills, Arcadia’s rocks and pines.

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, Eurotas wander’d by, When a sound arose from Sparta’s towers Of solemn harmony.

Was it the hunters’ choral strain To the woodland-goddess pour’d? Did virgin hands in Pallas’ fane Strike the full-sounding chord?

But helms were glancing on the stream, Spears ranged in close array, And shields flung back a glorious beam To the morn of a fearful day!

And the mountain-echoes of the land Swell’d through the deep blue sky; While to soft strains moved forth a band Of men that moved to die.

They march’d not with the trumpet’s blast, Nor bade the horn peal out; And the laurel groves, as on they pass’d, Rang with no battle-shout!

They ask’d no clarion’s voice to fire Their souls with an impulse high; But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre For the sons of liberty!

And still sweet flutes their path around Sent forth Æolian breath; They needed not a sterner sound To marshal them for death!

So moved they calmly to their field, Thence never to return, Save bearing back the Spartan shield, Or on it proudly borne!

[249] Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine.

THE URN AND SWORD.

They sought for treasures in the tomb, Where gentler hands were wont to spread Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom, And sunny ringlets, for the dead.[250]

They scatter’d far the greensward heap, Where once those hands the bright wine pour’d; --What found they in the home of sleep?-- A mouldering urn, a shiver’d sword!

An urn, which held the dust of one Who died when hearths and shrines were free; A sword, whose work was proudly done Between our mountains and the sea.

And these are treasures!--undismay’d, Still for their suffering land we trust, Wherein the past its fame hath laid With freedom’s sword and valour’s dust.

[250] See Potter’s Grecian Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 234.

THE MYRTLE BOUGH.

Still green, along our sunny shore, The flowering myrtle waves, As when its fragrant boughs of yore Were offer’d on the graves-- The graves wherein our mighty men Had rest, unviolated then.

Still green it waves! as when the hearth Was sacred through the land; And fearless was the banquet’s mirth, And free the minstrel’s hand; And guests, with shining myrtle crown’d, Sent the wreath’d lyre and wine-cup round.

Still green! as when on holy ground The tyrant’s blood was pour’d: Forget ye not what garlands bound The young deliverer’s sword! Though earth may shroud Harmodius now, We still have sword and myrtle bough!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRÜTLI.

Whence art thou, flower? From holy ground, Where freedom’s foot hath been! Yet bugle-blast or trumpet-sound Ne’er shook that solemn scene.

Flower of a noble field! thy birth Was not where spears have cross’d, And shiver’d helms have strewn the earth, Midst banners won and lost.

But where the sunny hues and showers Unto thy cup were given, There met high hearts at midnight hours, Pure hands were raised to heaven;

And vows were pledged that man should roam Through every Alpine dell Free as the wind, the torrent’s foam, The shaft of William Tell.

And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer, Hallow’d the pastoral sod; And souls grew strong for battle there, Nerved with the peace of God.

Before the Alps and stars they knelt, That calm devoted band, And rose, and made their spirits felt Through all the mountain-land.

Then welcome, Grütli’s free-born flower! Even in thy pale decay There dwells a breath, a tone, a power, Which all high thoughts obey.

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

And was thy home, pale wither’d thing, Beneath the rich blue southern sky? Wert thou a nursling of the spring, The winds and suns of glorious Italy?

Those suns in golden light e’en now Look o’er the poet’s lovely grave; Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.

The flowers o’er Posilippo’s brow May cluster in their purple bloom, But on th’ o’ershadowing ilex-bough, Thy breezy place is void by Virgil’s tomb.

Thy place is void; oh! none on earth, This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that which souls of loftiest birth Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.

Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung On the green stem which once was thine; When shall another strain be sung Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?

THE CHIEFTAIN’S SON.

Yes, it is ours!--the field is won, A dark and evil field! Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

Let me not hear your trumpets ring, Swell not the battle-horn! Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!

Speak not of victory!--in the name There is too much of woe! Hush’d be the empty voice of Fame-- Call me back his whose graceful head is low.

Speak not of victory!--from my halls The sunny hour is gone! The ancient banner on my walls Must sink ere long; I had but him--but one!

Within the dwelling of my sires The hearths will soon be cold, With me must die the beacon-fires That stream’d at midnight from the mountain-hold.

And let them fade, since this must be, My lovely and my brave! Was thy bright blood pour’d forth for me? And is there but for stately youth a grave?

Speak to me once again, my boy! Wilt thou not hear my call? Thou wert so full of life and joy, I had not dreamt of this--that thou couldst fall!

Thy mother watches from the steep For thy returning plume; How shall I tell her that thy sleep Is of the silent house, th’ untimely tomb?

Thou didst not seem as one to die, With all thy young renown! --Ye saw his falchion’s flash on high, In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!

Slow be your march! the field is won! A dark and evil field! Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

A FRAGMENT.

Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave! Let the pines murmur o’er your grave, Your dirge be in the moaning wave-- We call you back no more!

Oh! there was mourning when ye fell, In your own vales a deep-toned knell, An agony, a wild farewell-- But that hath long been o’er.

Rest with your still and solemn fame; The hills keep record of your name, And never can a touch of shame Darken the buried brow.

But we on changeful days are cast, When bright names from their place fall fast; And ye that with your glory pass’d, We cannot mourn you now.

ENGLAND’S DEAD.

Son of the Ocean Isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear’d o’er Glory’s bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead.

On Egypt’s burning plains, By the pyramid o’ersway’d, With fearful power the noonday reigns, And the palm-trees yield no shade;--

But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!-- There slumber England’s dead.

The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far by Ganges’ banks at night Is heard the tiger’s roar;--

But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone,-- There slumber England’s dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods The Western wilds among, And free, in green Columbia’s woods, The hunter’s bow is strung;--

But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow’s flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?-- There slumber England’s dead!

The mountain storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky Like rose-leaves on the breeze;--

But let the storm rage on! Let the fresh wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,-- There slumber England’s dead.

On the frozen deep’s repose ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern night-clouds lower;--

But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done,-- Even there sleep England’s dead.

The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead.

THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDS, HELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822.

[The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, “in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light.” The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly) in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening of a Gorsedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of federation.--See Owen’s Translation of the Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen.]

Where met our bards of old?--the glorious throng, They of the mountain and the battle-song? They met--oh! not in kingly hall or bower, But where wild Nature girt herself with power: They met where streams flash’d bright from rocky caves; They met where woods made moan o’er warriors’ graves, And where the torrent’s rainbow spray was cast, And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast, And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied The crested Roman, in his hour of pride; And where the Carnedd,[251] on its lonely hill, Bore silent record of the mighty still; And where the Druid’s ancient Cromlech[252] frown’d, And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.

There throng’d th’ inspired of yore!--on plain or height, In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light, And, baring unto heaven each noble head, Stood in the circle, where none else might tread. Well might their lays be lofty!--soaring thought From Nature’s presence tenfold grandeur caught: Well might bold freedom’s soul pervade the strains Which startled eagles from their lone domains, And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went Up through the blue resounding firmament. Whence came the echoes to those numbers high? ’Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by, And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest With their good swords, upon the mountain’s breast; And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow, Sever’d by cloud and storm from all below; And the turf-mounds,[253] once girt by ruddy spears, And the rock-altars of departed years. --Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent’s roar, The winds a thousand wild responses bore; And the green land, whose every vale and glen Doth shrine the memory of heroic men, On all her hills awakening to rejoice, Sent forth proud answers to her children’s voice.

For us, not ours the festival to hold, Midst the stone circles hallow’d thus of old; Not where great Nature’s majesty and might First broke all glorious on our infant sight; Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave, Not by the mountain-llyn,[254] the ocean-wave, In these late days we meet--dark Mona’s shore, Eryri’s[255] cliffs resound with harps no more!

But as the stream, (though time or art may turn The current, bursting from its cavern’d urn, From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers, To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,) Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep, Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep; Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free, Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee! To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong, Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song! Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less To the green memory of thy loveliness, Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal’d from every height, In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light!

[251] Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.

[252] Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a stone of covenant.

[253] The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mounts of turf.--Pennant.

[254] Llyn, a lake or pool.

[255] Eryri, Snowdon.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.[256]

I come, I come! ye have call’d me long-- I come o’er the mountains with light and song! Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth, By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes Are veil’d with wreaths on Italian plains;-- But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have look’d on the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free, And the pine has a hinge of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, And call’d out each voice of the deep blue sky; From the night-bird’s lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain, They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain brows, They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!

Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come! Where the violets lie may be now your home. Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye, And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly! With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Come forth to the sunshine--I may not stay. Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in grove and glen! Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth! Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, And youth is abroad in my green domains.

But ye!--ye are changed since ye met me last! There is something bright from your features pass’d! There is that come over your brow and eye Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die! --Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet: Oh! what have you look’d on since last we met?

Ye are changed, ye are changed!--and I see not here All whom I saw in the vanish’d year! There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, Which toss’d in the breeze with a play of light; There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay No faint remembrance of dull decay!

There were steps that flew o’er the cowslip’s head, As if for a banquet all earth were spread; There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky, And had not a sound of mortality! Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass’d? Ye have look’d on death since ye met me last!

I know whence the shadow comes o’er you now-- Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow! Ye have given the lovely to earth’s embrace-- She hath taken the fairest of beauty’s race, With their laughing eyes and their festal crown: They are gone from amongst you in silence down!

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair, Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair! But I know of a land where there falls no blight-- I shall find them there, with their eyes of light! Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell, I tarry no longer--farewell, farewell!

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne-- Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn! For me, I depart to a brighter shore-- Ye are mark’d by care, ye are mine no more; I go where the loved who have left you dwell, And the flowers are not Death’s. Fare ye well, farewell!

[256] Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine.

[“‘The Voice of Spring,’ perhaps the best known and best loved of all Mrs Hemans’ lyrics, was written early in the year 1823; and is thus alluded to in a letter to a friend, who had lately suffered a severe and sudden bereavement:--‘The Voice of Spring’ expresses some peculiar feelings of my own. Although my life has yet been unvisited by any affliction so deeply impressive, in all its circumstances, as the one you have been called upon to sustain; yet I cannot but feel every year, with the return of the violet, how much the shadows of my mind have deepened since its last appearance; and to me the spring, with all its joy and beauty, is generally a time of thoughtfulness rather than mirth. I think the most delightful poetry I know upon the subject of this season, is contained in the works of Tieck, a German poet, with whom you are perhaps acquainted; but the feelings he expresses are of a very different character from those I have described to you, seeming all to proceed from an overflowing sense of life and joy.’

“This indefinable feeling of languor and depression produced by the influence of spring, will be well understood by many a gentle heart. Never do the

‘Fond strange yearnings from the soul’s deep cell Gush for the faces we no more shall see,’

with such uncontrollable power, as when all external nature breathes of life and gladness. Amidst all the bright and joyous things around us, we are haunted with images of death and the grave. The force of contrast, not less strong than that of analogy, is unceasingly reminding us of the great gulf that divides us from those who are now ‘gone down in silence.’ Some unforgotten voice is ever whispering--‘And I too in Arcadia!’ We remember how we were wont to rejoice in the soft air and pleasant sunshine; and these things can charm us no longer, ‘because they are not.’ The farewell sadness of autumn, on the contrary--its falling leaves, and universal imagery of decay, by bringing more home to us the sense of our own mortality, identifies us more closely with those who are gone before, and the veil of separation becomes, as it were, more transparent. We are impressed with a more pervading conviction that ‘we shall go to them;’ while, in spring, every thing seems mournfully to echo, ‘they will not return to us!’

“These peculiar associations may be traced in many of Mrs Hemans’ writings, deepening with the influence of years and of sorrows, and more particularly developed in the poem called ‘Breathings of Spring.’ And when it is remembered that it was at this season her own earthly course was finished, the following passage from a letter, written in the month of May, some years after the one last quoted, cannot be read without emotion:--‘Poor A. H. is to be buried to-morrow. With the bright sunshine laughing around, it seems more sad to think of; yet, if I could choose when I would wish to die, it should be in spring--the influence of that season is so strangely depressing to my heart and frame.’”--Memoir, p. 66-68.

“‘The Voice of Spring,’ one of the first of what may be called Mrs Hemans’ fanciful lyrics, which presently became as familiar as the music of some popular composer when brought to our doors by wandering minstrels.”--Chorley’s Memorials, vol. i. p. 113.

“But it is time Mrs Hemans’ poetry were allowed to speak for itself; in making our extracts from it, we have really been as much puzzled as a child gathering flowers in a lovely garden--now attracted by a rose--straightway allured by a lily--now tempted by a stately tulip--and again unsettled by a breathing violet, or ‘well-attired woodbine.’ We do think, however, that the ‘Voice of Spring’ is the pride of Mrs H.’s parterre--the rose of her poetry.”--(A. A. Watts.)--Literary Magnet, 1826.]

ELYSIUM.

[“In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes--that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence--were banished to the infernal Regions.”--Chateaubriand, Génie du Christianisme.]

Fair wert thou in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams, Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, Where, as they pass’d, bright hours Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

Fair wert thou, with the light On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast From purple skies ne’er deep’ning into night, Yet soft, as if each moment were their last Of glory, fading fast Along the mountains!--but thy golden day Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Æolian sound went by From fountain-voices in their secret glades, And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply To summer’s breezy sigh, And young leaves trembling to the wind’s light breath, Which ne’er had touch’d them with a hue of death!

And the transparent sky Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain Of harps that midst the woods made harmony, Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain With dreams and yearnings vain, And dim remembrances, that still draw birth From the bewildering music of the earth.

And who, with silent tread, Moved o’er the plains of waving asphodel? Call’d from the dim procession of the dead, Who midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell, And listen to the swell Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale The spirit wandering in the immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine, at nations’ feasts went round! They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, And in all regions found Their echoes midst the mountains!--and become In man’s deep heart as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied-- Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought The soul’s far birthplace--but without a guide! Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysterious dreams, born midst the olive woods by Grecian streams.

But the most loved are they Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way; The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps; till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.

And these--of whose abode, Midst her green valleys, earth retain’d no trace, Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, A shade of sadness on some kindred face, A dim and vacant place In some sweet home;--thou hadst no wreaths for these, Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!

The peasant at his door Might sink to die when vintage-feasts were spread, And songs on every wind! From thy bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head-- Thou wert for nobler dead! He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, And sigh’d to bid the festal sun farewell!

The slave, whose very tears Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years, As embers in a burial-urn compress’d; He might not be thy guest! No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Came o’er his path, and whisper’d “Liberty!”

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, The child at rest before the mother lay, E’en so to pass away, With its bright smile!--Elysium! what wert thou To her, who wept o’er that young slumb’rer’s brow?

Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, Which in its clear eye shone Like spring’s first wakening! but that light was past-- Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast?

Not where thy soft winds play’d, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep! Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade! From thee no voice came o’er the gloomy deep, And bade man cease to weep! Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love![257]

[257] The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs Hemans some years after its first publication, and, though done so perhaps to advantage, one verse was omitted. As originally written, the two following stanzas concluded the piece:--

For the most loved are they Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice, In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way; The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps; till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.

And the world knows not then, Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! Yet these are they, who on the souls of men Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, The long-remember’d dead! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell-- Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel!

THE FUNERAL GENIUS,

AN ANCIENT STATUE.

“Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sur sa tête, et le dos appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exprimer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables.”--Visconti, Description des Antiques du Musée Royal.

Thou shouldst be look’d on when the starlight falls Through the blue stillness of the summer air, Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls-- It hath too fitful and too wild a glare! And thou!--thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.

Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead Were crown’d of old, with pale spring-flowers like these: Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed As from the wing of some faint southern breeze: And the pine-boughs o’ershadow thee with gloom, Which of the grove seems breathing--not the tomb.

They fear’d not death, whose calm and gracious thought Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee! They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, And laid thy head against the forest tree, As that of one, by music’s dreamy close, On the wood-violets lull’d to deep repose.

They fear’d not death!--yet who shall say his touch Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair? Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much Of tender beauty as thy features wear? Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes So still a night, a night of summer, lies!

Had they seen aught like thee? Did some fair boy Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest? --His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy, But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress’d; And his eye veil’d so softly by its fringe, And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?

Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour Made known its lessons from a brow like thine! If all their knowledge of the spoiler’s power Came by a look so tranquilly divine! --Let him who thus hath seen the lovely part, Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart.

But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe, Or love, or terror, in the days of old, That men pour’d out their gladd’ning spirit’s flow, Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold, And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid Far more than we--for loftier faith is ours! Their gems were lost in ashes--yet they made The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array’d, And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed O’er its dim precincts?--do we not intrust But for a time its chambers with our dead, And strew immortal seed upon the dust? Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, When living light hath touch’d the brow of death?

THE TOMBS OF PLATÆA.

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

And there they sleep!--the men who stood In arms before th’ exulting sun, And bathed their spears in Persian blood, And taught the earth how freedom might be won.

They sleep!--th’ Olympic wreaths are dead, Th’ Athenian lyres are hush’d and gone; The Dorian voice of song is fled-- Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on.

They sleep--and seems not all around As hallow’d unto glory’s tomb? Silence is on the battle-ground, The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom.

And stars are watching on their height, But dimly seen through mist and cloud; And still and solemn is the light Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud.

And thou, pale Night-queen! here thy beams Are not as those the shepherd loves, Nor look they down on shining streams, By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves.

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, In shadowy quiet, midst its vines; No temple gleaming from the steep, Midst the gray olives or the mountain pines:

But o’er a dim and boundless waste, Thy rays, e’en like a tomb-lamp’s, brood, Where man’s departed steps are traced But by his dust, amidst the solitude.

And be it thus!--What slave shall tread O’er freedom’s ancient battle-plains? Let deserts wrap the glorious dead When their bright Land sits weeping o’er her chains.

Here, where the Persian clarion rung, And where the Spartan sword flash’d high, And where the pæan strains were sung, From year to year swell’d on by liberty;

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, Until the bonds of Greece be riven, Save of the leader’s charging-word, Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven!

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave! No vines festoon your lonely tree,[258] No harvest o’er your war-field wave, Till rushing winds proclaim--The land is free!

[258] A single tree appears in Mr Williams’ impressive picture.

THE VIEW FROM CASTRI.

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

There have been bright and glorious pageants here, Where now gray stones and moss-grown columns lie; There have been words, which earth grew pale to hear, Breathed from the cavern’s misty chambers nigh: There have been voices through the sunny sky, And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes sending, And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody With incense-clouds around the temple blending, And throngs with laurel-boughs before the altar bending.

There have been treasures of the seas and isles Brought to the Day-god’s now-forsaken throne; Thunders have peal’d along the rock-defiles, When the far-echoing battle-horn made known That foes were on their way! The deep wind’s moan Hath chill’d th’ invader’s heart with secret fear; And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone, Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce career, From his bold hand have struck the banner and the spear.

The shrine hath sunk!--but thou unchanged art there! Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams! Unchanged--and rising through the radiant air, With thy dark waving pines, and flashing streams, And all thy founts of song! Their bright course teems With inspiration yet; and each dim haze, Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems As with its mantle veiling from our gaze The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days!

Away, vain fantasies!--doth less of power Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest, Though, in deep stillness, now the ruin’s flower Wave o’er the pillars mouldering on thy breast? --Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy crest! Let the great rocks their solitude regain! No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest With their full chords:--but silent be the strain! Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th’ Eternal’s reign![259]

[259] This, with the preceding, and several of the following pieces, first appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine.

THE FESTAL HOUR.

When are the lessons given That shake the startled earth? When wakes the foe While the friend sleeps? When falls the traitor’s blow? When are proud sceptres riven, High hopes o’erthrown?--It is when lands rejoice, When cities blaze and lift th’ exulting voice, And wave their banners to the kindling heaven!

Fear ye the festal hour! When mirth o’erflows, then tremble!--’Twas a night Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, When through the regal bower The trumpet peal’d ere yet the song was done, And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, And trampling armies, ruthless in their power.

The marble shrines were crown’d: Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody, And censers waved around; And lyres were strung and bright libations pour’d! When through the streets flash’d out the avenging sword, Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound![260]

Through Rome a triumph pass’d. Rich in her Sun-god’s mantling beams went by That long array of glorious pageantry, With shout and trumpet-blast. An empire’s gems their starry splendour shed O’er the proud march; a king in chains was led; A stately victor, crown’d and robed, came last.[261]

And many a Dryad’s bower Had lent the laurels which, in waving play, Stirr’d the warm air, and glisten’d round his way As a quick-flashing shower. --O’er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung-- Woe for the dead!--the father’s broken flower!

A sound of lyre and song, In the still night, went floating o’er the Nile, Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, Swept with that voice along; And lamps were shining o’er the red wine’s foam Where a chief revell’d in a monarch’s dome, And fresh rose-garlands deck’d a glittering throng.

’Twas Antony that bade The joyous chords ring out! But strains arose Of wilder omen at the banquet’s close! Sounds, by no mortal made,[262] Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, And pass’d--and with another sunset’s light, The kingly Roman on his bier was laid.

Bright midst its vineyards lay The fair Campanian city,[263] with its towers And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers, Clear in the golden day; Joy was around it as the glowing sky, And crowds had fill’d its halls of revelry, And all the sunny air was music’s way.

A cloud came o’er the face Of Italy’s rich heaven!--its crystal blue Was changed, and deepen’d to a wrathful hue Of night, o’ershadowing space As with the wings of death!--in all his power Vesuvius woke, and hurl’d the burning shower, And who could tell the buried city’s place?

Such things have been of yore, In the gay regions where the citrons blow, And purple summers all their sleepy glow On the grape-clusters pour; And where the palms to spicy winds are waving, Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving, As with a flow of light, their southern shore.

Turn we to other climes!-- Far in the Druid isle a feast was spread, Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead;[264] And ancient battle-rhymes Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed And lofty songs of Britain’s elder time;--

But ere the giant-fane Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, Hush’d were the bards, and in the face of heaven, O’er that old burial-plain, Flash’d the keen Saxon dagger!--blood was streaming Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming, And Britain’s hearths were heap’d that night in vain--

For they return’d no more! They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, In that fierce banquet’s mirth to bear their part: And on the rushy floor, And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls; But not for them--they slept--their feast was o’er!

Fear ye the festal hour! Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o’erflows! Tame down the swelling heart! The bridal rose, And the rich myrtle’s flower, Have veil’d the sword! Red wines have sparkled fast From venom’d goblets, and soft breezes pass’d With fatal perfume through the revel’s bower.

Twine the young glowing wreath! But pour not all your spirit in the song, Which through the sky’s deep azure floats along Like summer’s quickening breath! The ground is hollow in the path of mirth: Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth, So darkly press’d and girdled in by death!

[“‘The Festal Hour’ certainly appears to us to be one of the noblest, regular, and classical odes in the English language--happy in the general idea, and rich in imagery and illustration.”--Dr Morehead in Constable’s Magazine, Sept. 1823.]

[260] The sword of Harmodius.

[261] Paulus Æmilius, one of whose sons died a few days before, and another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest of Macedon, when Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains.

[262] See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, the night before Antony’s death.

[263] Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inhabitants were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes which overwhelmed the city descended.

[264] Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king; and by others mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of British chiefs here alluded to.

SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.

[“In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold of Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested that this prince repeatedly declared he ‘would trample the audacious rustics under his feet;’ and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for the purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to death.

“The 15th October 1315 dawned. The sun darted its first rays on the shields and armour of the advancing host; and this being the first army ever known to have attempted the frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line with various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cavalry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space between the mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on the eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled down heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. The confederates on the mountain, perceiving the impression made by this attack, rushed down in close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered column. With massy clubs they dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and dealt their blows and thrusts with long pikes. The narrowness of the defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having injured the road, the horses were impeded in all their motions; many leaped into the lake; all were startled; and at last the whole column gave way, and fell suddenly back on the infantry; and these last, as the nature of the country did not allow them to open their files, were run over by the fugitives, and many of them trampled to death. A general rout ensued, and Duke Leopold was with much difficulty rescued by a peasant, who led him to Winterthur, where the historian of the times saw him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed.”--Planta’s History of the Helvetic Confederacy.]

The wine-month[265] shone in its golden prime, And the red grapes clustering hung, But a deeper sound, through the Switzer’s clime, Than the vintage music, rung-- A sound through vaulted cave, A sound through echoing glen, Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave; --’Twas the tread of steel-girt men.

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, Midst the ancient rocks was blown, Till the Alps replied to that voice of war With a thousand of their own. And through the forest-glooms Flash’d helmets to the day; And the winds were tossing knightly plumes, Like the larch-boughs in their play.

In Hasli’s[266] wilds there was gleaming steel As the host of the Austrian pass’d; And the Schreckhorn’s[267] rocks, with a savage peal, Made mirth of his clarion’s blast. Up midst the Righi snows The stormy march was heard, With the charger’s tramp, whence fire-sparks rose, And the leader’s gathering-word.

But a band, the noblest band of all, Through the rude Morgarten strait, With blazon’d streamers and lances tall, Moved onwards in princely state. They came with heavy chains For the race despised so long-- But amidst his Alp-domains, The herdsman’s arm is strong!

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn When they enter’d the rock-defile, And shrill as a joyous hunter’s horn Their bugles rang the while. But on the misty height Where the mountain-people stood, There was stillness as of night, When storms at distance brood.

There was stillness as of deep, dead night, And a pause--but not of fear, While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might Of the hostile shield and spear. On wound those columns bright Between the lake and wood, But they look’d not to the misty height Where the mountain-people stood.

The pass was fill’d with their serried power, All helm’d and mail-array’d, And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower In the rustling forest-shade. There were prince and crested knight, Hemm’d in by cliff and flood, When a shout arose from the misty height Where the mountain-people stood.

And the mighty rocks came bounding down Their startled foes among, With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown-- Oh! the herdsman’s arm is strong!-- They came like lauwine[268] hurl’d From Alp to Alp in play, When the echoes shout through the snowy world, And the pines are borne away.

The fir-woods crash’d on the mountain-side, And the Switzers rush’d from high, With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride Of the Austrian chivalry: Like hunters of the deer, They storm’d the narrow dell; And first in the shock, with Uri’s spear, Was the arm of William Tell.[269]

There was tumult in the crowded strait, And a cry of wild dismay; And many a warrior met his fate From a peasant’s hand that day! And the Empire’s banner then From its place of waving free, Went down before the shepherd-men, The men of the Forest-Sea.

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake The cuirass and the shield, And the war-horse dash’d to the reddening lake From the reapers of the field! The field--but not of sheaves-- Proud crests and pennons lay, Strewn o’er it thick as the birch-wood leaves In the autumn tempest’s way.

Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view’d When the Austrian turn’d to fly, And the brave, in the trampling multitude, Had a fearful death to die! And the leader of the war At eve unhelm’d was seen, With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, And a pale and troubled mien.

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills Went back from the battle-toil, To their cabin homes midst the deep-green hills, All burden’d with royal spoil. There were songs and festal fires On the soaring Alps that night, When children sprang to greet their sires From the wild Morgarten fight

[265] Wine-month, the German name for October.

[266] Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne.

[267] Schreckhorn, the peak of terror, a mountain in the canton of Berne.

[268] Lauwine, the Swiss name for the avalanche.

[269] William Tell’s name is particularly mentioned amongst the confederates at Morgarten.

ODE ON THE DEFEAT OF KING SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL, AND HIS ARMY, IN AFRICA.

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF HERRERA.

[Ferdinand de Herrera, surnamed the Divine, was a Spanish poet who lived in the reign of Charles V., and is still considered by the Castilians as one of their classic writers. He aimed at the introduction of a new style into Spanish poetry, and his lyrics are distinguished by the sustained majesty of their language, the frequent recurrence of expressions and images derived apparently from a fervent study of the prophetic books of Scripture, and the lofty tone of national pride maintained throughout, and justified indeed by the nature of the subjects to which some of these productions are devoted. This last characteristic is blended with a deep and enthusiastic feeling of religion, which rather exalts than tempers the haughty confidence of the poet in the high destinies of his country. Spain is to him what Judea was to the bards who sang beneath the shadow of her palm-trees--the chosen and favoured land, whose people, severed from all others by the purity and devotedness of their faith, are peculiarly called to wreak the vengeance of Heaven upon the infidel. This triumphant conviction is powerfully expressed in his magnificent Ode on the Battle of Lepanto.

The impression of deep solemnity left upon the mind of the Spanish reader, by another of Herrera’s lyric compositions, will, it is feared, be very inadequately conveyed through the medium of the following translation.]

“Voz de dolor, y canto de gemido,” etc.

A voice of woe, a murmur of lament, A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire; Let such record the day, the day of wail For Lusitania’s bitter chastening sent! She who hath seen her power, her fame expire, And mourns them in the dust, discrown’d and pale. And let the awful tale With grief and horror every realm o’ershade, From Afric’s burning main To the far sea, in other hues array’d, And the red limits of the Orient’s reign, Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold Christ’s glorious banner to the winds unfold.

Alas! for those that in embattled power, And vain array of chariots and of horse, O desert Libya! sought thy fatal coast! And trusting not in Him, the eternal source Of might and glory, but in earthly force, Making the strength of multitudes their boast, A flush’d and crested host, Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trode Their path of pride, as o’er a conquer’d land Given for the spoil; nor raised their eyes to God: And Israel’s Holy One withdrew his hand, Their sole support;--and heavily and prone They fell--the car, the steed, the rider, all o’erthrown!

It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe, Which to deep solitude and tears consign’d The peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth. A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow Announced the morn--it seem’d as nature pined, And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam’s birth; While, startling the pale earth, Bursting upon the mighty and the proud With visitation dread, Their crests the Eternal, in his anger, bow’d, And raised barbarian nations o’er their head, The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold, But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncontroll’d.

Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword Of the strong infidel’s ignoble hand, Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crown Of thy fair knighthood; and the insatiate horde, Not with thy life content, O ruin’d land! Sad Lusitania! even thy bright renown Defaced and trampled down; And scatter’d, rushing as a torrent-flood, Thy pomp of arms and banners;--till the sands Became a lake of blood--thy noblest blood!-- The plain a mountain of thy slaughter’d bands. Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed; On thy devoted sons--amaze, and shame, and dread.

Are these the conquerors, these the lords of fight, The warrior men, the invincible, the famed, Who shook the earth with terror and dismay, Whose spoils were empires?--They that in their might The haughty strength of savage nations tamed, And gave the spacious Orient realms of day To desolation’s sway, Making the cities of imperial name E’en as the desert-place? Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race In one brief hour? Is this their valour’s doom, On distant shores to fall, and find not even a tomb?

Once were they, in their splendour and their pride, As an imperial cedar on the brow Of the great Lebanon! It rose, array’d In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide Majestic branches, leaving far below All children of the forest. To its shade The waters tribute paid, Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky, And the wild mountain-creatures made their lair Beneath; and nations by its canopy Were shadow’d o’er. Supreme it stood, and ne’er Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair.

But all elated, on its verdant stem, Confiding solely in its regal height, It soar’d presumptuous, as for empire born; And God for this removed its diadem, And cast it from its regions of delight, Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn, By the deep roots uptorn! And lo! encumbering the lone hills it lay, Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state; While, pale with fear, men hurried far away, Who in its ample shade had found so late Their bower of rest; and nature’s savage race Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place.

But thou, base Libya! thou whose arid sand Hath been a kingdom’s deathbed, where one fate Closed her bright life and her majestic fame,-- Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand Hath fall’n the victory, be not thou elate! Boast not thyself, though thine that day of shame, Unworthy of a name! Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance, Aroused to vengeance by a nation’s cry, Pierced by his searching lance, Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony, And thine affrighted streams to ocean’s flood An ample tribute bear of Afric’s Paynim blood.

SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL.

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

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