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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ismael; an oriental tale. With other poems,
-by Edward George Lytton  Bulwer
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
-using this eBook.
-
-Title: Ismael; an oriental tale. With other poems
-
-Author: Edward George Lytton  Bulwer
-
-Release Date: May 16, 2021 [eBook #65357]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
-             Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
-             produced from images generously made available by The Internet
-             Archive/American Libraries.)
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ISMAEL; AN ORIENTAL TALE. WITH
-OTHER POEMS ***
-
-
-
-
-
-                                ISMAEL;
-
-                           AN ORIENTAL TALE.
-
-                                 WITH
-
-                             Other Poems.
-
-
-
-
-                                ISMAEL;
-
-                           AN ORIENTAL TALE.
-
-                                 WITH
-
-                             Other Poems.
-
-
-                                  BY
-
-                     EDWARD GEORGE LYTTON BULWER.
-
-
-                           _Written between
-                   The Age of Thirteen and Fifteen._
-
-
-            “Scribimus indocti doctique poëmata passim.”
-                                 _Hor. 2 Ep. 1._
-
-                               _LONDON:_
-
-                    PRINTED FOR J. HATCHARD AND SON
-                         No. 187, PICCADILLY.
-
-                                 1820.
-
-
-                       _Printed by J. Brettell,
-                  Rupert Street, Haymarket, London._
-
-
-
-
-PREFACE.
-
-
-To court applause by oblique dexterity, or without a due sense of
-respect for public opinion, impertinently to advance pretensions, is
-equally revolting to the feelings of an ingenuous mind. But as genius
-and a desire of fame are naturally allied, and, perhaps, the former
-never existed without the latter; will not the youthful adventurer be
-justified in endeavouring to stand well in the opinion of the judicious
-and discerning, by disseminating his works among them--under a
-confidence, that the more candid will be pleased with the first blossoms
-of poetical talent, not only as the fruits of industry, but as presages
-in maturer years of more elevated titles to distinction? With these
-impressions, the Author of the following Poems has been induced, by the
-advice of his friends, to offer the present Collection to the public.
-The praise of friends, I am aware, is not always a sufficient reason for
-publication;--and pieces of poetry, dictated by some local occurrence,
-or intended as a tribute of politeness or affection to some individual,
-though at first much admired, may, nevertheless scarcely deserve to be
-transmitted to posterity. I am well aware that the strict eye of
-criticism may discover imperfections, and that a nice ear may, perhaps,
-occasionally be hurt by a harsh line;--and, that some, from a dread of
-inspiring into a young mind, a taste for extra-academical fame, may be
-disposed to extinguish altogether such attempts--yet it would be
-straining delicacy beyond convenient bounds, if we did not cherish the
-idea, that there may be others, who may be pleased to look propitiously
-on the first specimens of genius at so early an age--many of them having
-been written when the Author had attained only his Thirteenth year, and
-the whole before he had completed Fifteen years of age. Their claims are
-not, _perhaps_, of that superior kind, which will find a place among the
-first orders of poetry; but the pieces breathe throughout the true
-spirit of virtuous sensibility, vigour of fancy, and that characteristic
-manner, which always accompanies strong power of invention;--they
-display richness of imagery, and elegance of style, while the language
-has an easy flow, and unaffected simplicity, free from that artificial
-splendor, and obscure magnificence, which modern taste seems to
-establish as the excellence of poetical diction. Most of the larger
-Poems in the Collection express in easy language, and at the same time
-with all the graces of genuine poetry, every sentiment fitted to the
-occasion on which they were written. Of this, among the lighter ones,
-the reader will have an agreeable specimen in the verses dedicated to
-Lady C---- L----, which though on a trivial subject, may, perhaps, give
-as just and pleasing an idea of this Writer’s poetical talents, as any
-other single piece among the more trifling ones which we can collect.
-The Translations of the first Chorus of Œdipus Tyrrannus, and two Odes
-of Horace, exhibit no small degree of classical attainment: and, however
-just or otherwise the remark may be, “that the failure of preceding
-translators has arisen, in a great measure, from a desire to copy the
-variations of Horace’s measures;” the present ones convey a correct and
-spirited explanation of the sense in general, and by observing
-circumstances and the little figures and turns on the words, (that
-_curiosa felicitas verborum_,) they have preserved the beauties, and
-kept alive that spirit and fire, which make the chief character of the
-original.
-
-It will not, therefore, be presuming too much, to hope that these Poems
-may contain enough to draw from such as value the display of early
-talents, a favourable reception; and that the Author, under such
-encouragement, when his taste is more matured, will perfect the produce
-of his youthful industry, and by diligence add to the stores of a mind
-formed by nature to accumulate and decorate them--there is only left for
-me to say,
-
-    His saltem accumulem donis.
-
-                       ΦΙΛΌΜΟΥΣΟΣ.
-
-
-
-
-ADVERTISEMENT
-
-BY THE AUTHOR.
-
-
-Notwithstanding my friend has said so much and so flattering to myself,
-in his Preface, yet the diffidence and the anxiety which ever accompany
-a first attempt, particularly at so early an age, urge me to add a few
-words, however superfluous they may appear. An apology is indeed,
-perhaps, always requisite for an intrusion on the public, and I cannot,
-therefore, refrain from offering one for some of the Poems which are
-inferior to the rest. They were written when but a child--they were the
-first faint dawnings of poetic enthusiasm,--and that sense of integrity,
-which should accompany every action, prevented my now altering them, in
-any _material_ respect. I expressly state the age at which they were
-written, and I think it but a duty to the public, that they should
-actually be written at that age. For the same reason, therefore, and not
-from any arrogant vanity, I have been particularly careful that no other
-hand should have polished, or improved them.
-
-For the Battle of Waterloo, much ought to be said in apology, when so
-many far, far more adequate to the task, than myself, have written upon
-it; and when so many have failed in the attempt, it seems to argue
-vanity in the design; but such, I may assert, was far from my mind, at
-the time of its composition. It was begun in a moment of enthusiasm--it
-was continued from a deep interest in the undertaking--and it was
-completed from a dislike, I have always entertained, to leave any thing
-unfinished. But I was myself very unwilling to commit it to the press,
-and only did so at the express and flattering desire of some intimate
-friends, who were, perhaps, too partial to perceive its defects.
-
-To the generosity of the more lenient of the public, do I now confide
-this first attempt for their favour; and, as they scan over the faults
-with the eye of Criticism, may the hand of Mercy restrain them from
-dragging those faults to light.
-
-The solicitude that I feel, would induce me to indulge in a tedious
-prolixity; but I must remember, that none but _myself_ can be interested
-in my _own_ feelings, and I will, therefore, no longer detain my readers
-from the proof.
-
-
-
-
-                   TO WHOM SHOULD A YOUNG, AND TIMID
-                   COMPETITOR FOR PUBLIC REPUTATION,
-                        DEDICATE HIS ATTEMPTS,
-                                BUT TO
-                           A BRITISH PUBLIC?
-                    TO THAT PUBLIC, WHO HAVE ALWAYS
-              BEEN THE FOSTERERS OF INDUSTRY, OR GENIUS,
-                  WHO HAVE ALWAYS LOOKED FORWARD FROM
-                      THE IMPERFECTIONS OF YOUTH,
-                                TO THE
-                          FRUITS OF MATURITY.
-                    IT IS TO THAT GENEROUS PUBLIC,
-             THAT HE NOW COMMITS HIS HOPES AND HIS FEARS.
-                    IT IS TO THAT GENEROUS PUBLIC,
-                        THAT HE NOW OFFERS HIS
-                           JUVENILE EFFORTS,
-                          FOR THEIR APPLAUSE!
-
-
-
-
-CONTENTS.
-
-
-                                                                    PAGE
-
-_Address to Walter Scott, Esq._                                        1
-
-_Ismael; an Oriental Tale_                                             3
-
-_Notes_                                                               55
-
-_To Lady C---- L----_                                                 61
-
-_To Lady W----_                                                       63
-
-_Ode to the Muse of Verse_                                            64
-
-_Ode to a Poker_                                                      67
-
-_To K----, the Seat of Mrs. ----_                                     70
-
-_On Friendship_                                                       75
-
-_Irregular Lines_                                                     80
-
-_Stanzas to Lyra_                                                     84
-
-_Geraldine; a Romantic Tale_                                          87
-
-_On seeing a Tear on the Cheek of a Young Lady_                      109
-
-_Translations from Horace_                                           111
-
-_Translation of the First Chorus in the Œdipus
-Tyrrannus of Sophocles_                                              119
-
-_Parnassus; a Vision_                                                123
-
-_Upon a late Man of Quality_                                         133
-
-_To Lyra_                                                            136
-
-_Farewell to Lyra_                                                   138
-
-_The Casket_                                                         142
-
-_The Battle of Waterloo_                                             145
-
-_Notes_                                                              195
-
-
-
-
-ERRATA.
-
-
-        _Page_ 22, _line_ 389, _for_ is, _read_ bath
-
-        ----   28, ----   391, _for_ dying, _read_ mortal
-
-        ----   31, ----    90, _for_ t’, _read_ to
-
-        ----   36, ----   206,
- _for_ “Some mouths ago this arm had sav’d his life
-_read_ “Some moons have past since Ismael sav’d his life”
-        _Page_ 64, _line_ 5, _for_ whither, _read_ whether
-
-
-
-
-ADDRESS
-
-TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.
-
-_Written at Thirteen Years Old._
-
-
-    To thee, O SCOTT, I tune my humble lyre,
-    Who first inflam’d me with a Poet’s fire.
-    Well may fair Scotland glory in the fame,
-    That waits thy verse, and crowns thy radiant name:
-    The child of Nature, all thy strains impart
-    A charm more lasting than the works of Art.
-    How oft in sweet delirium past the day,
-    When pond’ring o’er thy richly-varied lay,
-    To view the page with retrospective eye,
-    Of deeds long done, of years long glided by.                      10
-
-    E’en now, methinks, I view, by Fancy’s pow’r,
-    Th’ unearthly scene of Melross’ mould’ring tow’r[1]!
-    Now, feel each vein, in icy horror bound;
-    Hark! the dire curse re-echoes o’er the ground[2]--
-    The regal banquet[3], or the mazy dance,
-    Alternate court the raptures of my glance!
-    In lasting colours all, thy pencil drew,
-    And held their beauties to our wond’ring view.
-    The first of Phœbus’ vot’ries, thou, to show
-    How sweetly-wild the streams of Verse can flow;                   20
-    Thy dazzling genius, to the future age,
-    Shall shine resplendent in the Muse’s page:
-    For who, like thee, each pow’r of soul can bind,
-    And wake the dull strings of the folded mind?
-    Awful, or pensive, soften’d, wild, or gay,
-    Oh! who, like thee, can waft the sense away
-    In dreams divine?--and who so blind can be
-    E’er to prefer that wayward Bard[C] to thee,
-    Sublime in what?--in what!--Impiety!
-    Yes! when Oblivion o’er _his_ name at last,                       30
-    Her endless and impervious shroud shall cast,
-    Britons shall mark with proud, enraptur’d eye,
-    _Thine_ are the lays that shall not, cannot die.
-
-
-
-
-ISMAEL;
-
-AN ORIENTAL POEM.
-
-In Two Cantos.
-
-_Written at Fifteen Years Old._
-
-
-    “Let those who rule on Persia’s jewell’d throne,
-    “Be fam’d for love, and gentlest love alone,
-    “Or twine, like Abbas, full of fair renown,
-    “The lover’s myrtle with the warrior’s crown.”
-                     Collins’s Oriental Eclogues.
-
-
-
-
-ISMAEL.
-
-CANTO I.
-
-
-I.
-
-    ’Tis eve, and bright through Caymyr’s fragrant trees
-    Spread Ismael’s banners to the wanton breeze;
-    O’er martial camps, and trophied armour blue,
-    The rising moon-beams cast a silvery hue;
-    Lull’d is each ruder wind, so hush’d, and calm,
-    That not a leaf is mov’d on yonder palm,
-    Save by the soft, sweet breeze that now floats by,
-    Like the faint meltings of a lover’s sigh;
-    And the lone bulbul[4], on that beauteous tree,
-    Pours out her strains of purest melody;                           10
-    And many a flow’r, that shuns day’s fervid glow,
-    Puts forth its modest, fragrant beauties now;
-    And the high heav’ns smile so sublimely fair,
-    The eye might think to waft the spirit there;
-    While yonder clouds, that o’er the mountain roll’d,
-    Have caught the sun’s last parting glance of gold,
-    And seem to glory in their splendid hue,
-    Give to the heav’ns around a brighter blue.
-    But the rich beauties of that sacred still,
-    With war’s rude mingled sounds are suited ill                     20
-    With clang of arms, loud shouting, and rough swell
-    Of rousing trumpet, and of clashing zel[5];
-    It breaks the balm divine, that breathes around,
-    That else might pour its healing in the wound
-    Of rack’d Despair, and Murder’s self awhile,
-    Of its soul-withering agony beguile.
-
-    Yes! ’tis an eve, whose pensive, sweet control,
-    Thrills in soft transport through the care-worn soul,
-    And man would cry, “Is this a place, an hour
-    “For war’s dread tyrant to exert his power?                       30
-    “Perchance this scene, that now, so softly mild,
-    “Of love and sweetness seems the heav’nly child,
-    “May soon, alas! where now these flowrets glow,
-    “Red carnage pour, and echo sounds of wo!
-    “This far-extended camp, this glorious train
-    “That spread their numbers o’er green Caymyr’s plain,
-    “Vast as the sand, that loads the Persian shore,
-    “A day shall come,--and they shall be no more.”
-
-
-II.
-
-      Sees’t thou yon crescent gleaming from afar,
-    Like half-hid influence of some meteor star?                      40
-    It glows on Ismael’s tent; the sentry there,
-    With cautious step, keeps more than common care.
-    But say, why (lord of all this num’rous band,
-    The sword of conquest flaming in his hand)
-    He, he alone, of all his armies yield,
-    Is absent now from Caymyr’s tented field;
-    When mark’d by royal jealousy’s keen eye,
-    The Sage of Ardevil[6] was doom’d to die;
-    He, whose high soul e’er soar’d on sacred wings,
-    Above the toils of kingdoms and of kings.                         50
-    Three sons he left; and two their danger knew,
-    Of age to see them, and to fly them too.
-    The third, young Ismael, then of infant age,
-    His father’s friends convey’d from Rustam’s rage.
-    And flying hence, to Pyrchilim the Brave,
-    His sire’s illustrious friend, the child they gave:
-    And there he grew, and every virtuous grace
-    Enrich’d the noblest of Shich-Eidar’s race;
-    Talent and honour all his soul possest,
-    In form of scarcely human beauty drest.                           60
-
-    In earliest youth, ere yet the toils of man,
-    Ambitious fire, and war’s alarms, began,
-    He lov’d a maid, the flow’r of Ava’s race;
-    No rose, no lily match’d that maiden’s face.
-    He sigh’d his love, and Selyma return’d
-    The chasten’d flame with which his bosom burn’d.
-    Oh! mid the beauties of those heav’nly shores,
-    Where all her charms, luxuriant Nature pours;
-    Not such cold charms, as, in the frozen North,
-    Few, and half ripe, her niggard hand puts forth;                  70
-    But such, as on Love’s warmest, brightest shrine
-    She strews around, all glowing, all divine.
-    Oh, it were sweet to mark those lovers’ bliss--
-    Bliss far too great for such a world as this.
-    And they would sit beneath some spreading palm,
-    When mellowing eve put forth her fragrant balm,
-    And watch the setting sun’s last dazzling sheen,
-    Sink slow, as loth to quit so soft, so fair a scene.
-    And _he_ would cull fresh flowrets’ varied glow,
-    To form a wreath to deck her lovely brow,                         80
-    And twine his fingers in her locks of night,
-    As down her breast they stray’d, as envious of its white;--
-    And, as they lay, their breathing lips would meet,
-    And hearts, that love first taught th’ ecstatic beat.
-    And oh, to part at night, the ling’ring pain,
-    And oh, the happiness to meet again.
-    Yes, love like their’s so rapturous, yet so pure,
-    Alas! could never, never long endure!
-
-
-III.
-
-    When Ismael learn’d, from whom he drew his breath,
-    Shich-Eidar’s virtues, and Shich-Eidar’s death,                   90
-    The rightful heir to Persia’s realms; his soul
-    With glory heav’d, disdaining Love’s control.
-    He left the maid, for Honour’s trumpet blew,
-    And straight to arms, and to revenge he flew.
-    Wrong’d by oppression, or impell’d by fame,
-    Around his standard, thousands daily came:
-    His sire’s old followers, joying to behold,
-    From their dead sage, arise a son so bold;
-    And many a chief, who lov’d in him to trace
-    A branch of Iran’s ancient royal race,                           100
-    And that an alien from his blood should fill
-    The throne of Usum Cassan, brook’d it ill.
-    Many, who view’d his talents and admir’d;
-    And more, by love of battle-spoils inspir’d;
-    Widen’d each day the miscellaneous band,
-    That swore to fight at Ismael’s command.--
-    He fought, and conquer’d! to applauding fame
-    Victorious war had giv’n his youthful name.
-    Alvante reign’d upon the Persian throne,
-    In Tauris sway’d, what Ismael deem’d his own;                    110
-    Thither he march’d, resolv’d, at one great blow,
-    His hopes, his fortunes, and his life to throw.
-
-    Tir’d with their rapid march, eve found his train
-    Encamp’d near Tauris, on soft Caymyr’s plain.
-
-    In yon tall tow’r, just peeping from the grove,
-    Knew Ismael there, now dwelt his ancient love:
-    For Ava fell in battle, and the fair
-    Gave to her mother Amagilda’s care.
-    And she, for safety from the civil war,
-    Fled from her native halls and vallies far;                      120
-    And with this only child, the widow’d dame,
-    To that tall tow’r near stately Tauris, came.
-    Unknown to all, high Ismael mounts his horse,
-    And tow’rds his Selyma directs his course.
-
-
-IV.
-
-    What light is streaming through the darken’d gloom?
-    That radiance comes from Selyma’s lone room!
-    She, pensive, leaning on her iv’ry arm,
-    Hangs o’er her lattice, to imbibe the balm
-    That eve imparts, while Fancy’s pow’r pourtrays
-    The ling’ring charm, that hangs on other days.                   130
-    From her bright eyes, where Love had fix’d his throne,
-    The tears of mem’ry cours’d each other down,
-    And her white bosom heav’d so deep a sigh--
-    ’Twas like a long, long strain of dying melody!
-    “And where art thou, companion of my youth?
-    “Where are thy vows of never-ceasing truth?
-    “’Tis in idea alone, alas! I trace
-    “The well-known features of that beaming face;
-    “Curs’d be the fatal, the dire-omen’d day,
-    “That glory tore thee, from mine arms, away!                     140
-    “Curs’d be that glory, which will lead thee on,
-    “Where ruthless Azrail’s thickest dangers throng;
-    “Yes, thou wilt die; or, living, die to me!”
-    ‘No, Selyma, I’m here, and live for thee.’
-    Scarce had the virgin turn’d her wond’ring eyes,
-    Scarce giv’n the sound of fearful, glad surprise,
-    Then at her feet, reality has brought
-    The worshipp’d object of her ev’ry thought:
-    Swift o’er the senses of her ravish’d soul,
-    A temporary, kind oblivion stole;                                150
-    But soon reviv’d, her eager eyes survey
-    Him, whom she thought was ever snatch’d away.
-    “And dost thou live, and does mine eye once more,
-    “View, what it deem’d was ever, ever o’er?”
-    ‘Yes, Selyma, my first, my only love,
-    ‘I still am faithful as thy kindred dove.
-    ‘The _Chieftain Ismael_, heir to Persia’s throne,
-    ‘Comes, _humble Ismael’s_ vows of love to own;
-    ‘To lead thee forth, the fairest of the fair,
-    ‘My love, my glory, and my realms to share.                      160
-    ‘To morrow’s sun shall see my banners wave
-    ‘O’er Persia’s city, and Alvante’s grave.
-    ‘And thronging crowds shall hail my lovely bride,
-    ‘Rich Iran’s princess, and high Ismael’s pride!’
-
-    “Ah, Ismael, happier far my lot would be,
-    “To range our earlier scenes of love with thee!
-    “How would thine humble Selyma repine,
-    “That loathed state should keep her soul from thine.
-    “But why should selfish love attempt to mar
-    “The bright refulgence of thine happier star!                    170
-    “Whatever pleases Ismael, must be,
-    “O soul of Selyma, most dear to thee!”
-    Thus, in sweet converse, the fast-flying hours
-    Were, like some bridegroom’s path, o’erstrew’d with flow’rs.
-    At length remember’d Ismael, lest the morn
-    Should show his absence, he must now return.
-    And Selyma, awak’ning from her trance,
-    Sent all her soul to his in one fond glance.
-    “Ah, dost thou leave me, still, alas! unkind,
-    “Must Ismael go, and I remain behind?                            180
-    “Perhaps some arm, amid the bloody strife,
-    “May rear the blade against thy valued life;--
-    “Oh, let me go with thee!--thine arm, my shield,
-    “Oh, let me share the perils of the field!
-    “What though I fall, what death can be so dear,
-    “To cast my dying eyes around, and see thee near.”
-
-    High Ismael clasp’d the mourner to his breast,
-    And dried the falling torrents in his vest;
-    E’en though inur’d to war, to toil, to pain,
-    Though wont to gaze, unmoved, at heaps of slain,                 190
-    Yet, as he view’d the anguish of the maid,
-    Adown his cheek the pitying tear-drop stray’d.
-    ‘Farewell, another sun perchance may see,
-    ‘Thine Ismael return to love, and thee.
-    ‘How could that form of beauty learn to bear
-    ‘The din of camps, the toils of blood and war!
-    ‘Unman me not with this thy pleading wo--
-    ‘Think, O my love, that Honour bids me go;
-    ‘And the same law that summons me away,
-    ‘Commands thee here, my Selyma, to stay;--                       200
-    ‘Farewell.’--
-                  O! who that ne’er experienc’d it can tell
-    What meaning hangs on that sole word--farewell--
-    The piercing, thrilling glance, the tender air,
-    That utter more than words can tell,--are there;
-    And the big tear that dims the sparkling eye;
-    And the mute language of th’ imploring sigh;
-    And that soft, ling’ring tone, that seems the sound
-    Of love himself, upon that word is found.
-    O ne’er, O ne’er can he, whose inmost soul
-    Has never felt it, tell its sweet control!                       210
-
-    Selyma views him seize the snowy rein,
-    O’er his dark courser’s widely-streaming mane
-    (Like streaks of light in sable clouds) that hung,
-    Then on the back of mighty pride he sprung;--
-    One parting look he casts!--with eagle speed,
-    Away, away, swift scours that gen’rous steed.
-
-
-V.
-
-    Now pensive midnight’s sable mantle falls
-    O’er stately Tauris’ proud imbattled walls;
-    And there dark Desolation’s fix’d his throne;
-    No sound is there, save sigh or plaintive groan:--               220
-    There drops the widow’s tear--there heaves the sigh
-    Of mourning sire--there sounds the orphan’s cry--
-    And there dark Azrail[7] sits, and grimly waves
-    His sable pinions o’er a thousand graves;
-    Yet e’en his rugged soul is tir’d--his hand
-    Would fain let drop his all-destructive brand--
-    Would gladly spread his deadly plumes, to fly
-    From such a scene of desolate misery.
-
-    For when Alvante’s brother claim’d a throne,
-    Which none but Ismael had the right to own;                      230
-    The tyrant, wak’ning from inglorious ease,
-    Rush’d to the battle, like the northern breeze:--
-    They fought! and young Moratcham’s lesser band
-    Fled in dismay before his brother’s hand.
-    But wo to Tauris’ chiefs!--for, there return’d,
-    With vengeful rage the haughty victor burn’d:
-    For they had help’d to place the daring brand,
-    Of red Rebellion, in Moratcham’s hand.
-    And, like some roaring whirlwind’s sweeping path,
-    That tears whole forests with its rabid wrath;                   240
-    Or, like some demon’s all-destroying form,
-    That wings the blast, and rides the gath’ring storm:
-    So fierce Alvante saw each coming day,
-    The luckless chiefs of Tauris sweep away.
-
-    Whence is that piercing scream?--Oh, turn thine eye
-    To view that scene of more than misery!
-    Yon maiden lov’d yon lifeless youth; he fell
-    Beneath Alvante’s rage,--the rest too well
-    That scream has told;--wide floats her streaming hair,
-    As if to ask compassion of the air,                              250
-    And her dark eye-balls’ wilder’d, frenzied roll,
-    Tell all the pangs that rend her madd’ning soul.
-    She press’d her lips to his, in vain to breathe
-    Life into lips, where all is death beneath;--
-    She feels his heart, for ever cold its glow,
-    And its high bound of rapture, silenc’d now!
-    And up she springs, and laughs--she laughs--but there
-    Burst forth the horrid laughter of Despair.
-    Vain, vain is reason, life against the stroke,
-    Dead on her love she falls--her faithful heart is broke.         260
-
-
-VI.
-
-    See the pale tyrant in his lofty tow’rs,
-    In reckless revelry employ his hours;
-    No blood, though torrents round his dwelling roll,
-    Dims the forbidden[8] sparkle of the bowl.
-    His form gigantic, and commanding mien,
-    The eye of memory ne’er could quit, once seen.
-    Yet there, no foulness stain’d, no beauty shone,
-    If each stern feature were remark’d alone;--
-    But all united, the tremendous whole                             269
-    Went, in an instant, through the awe-struck soul--
-    All, all appear’d t’ announce--this, this must be
-    Almost a demon, or a deity.
-
-    But lo! a messenger, whose reeking steed
-    Bears tacit witness to its rider’s speed,
-    Stops at the palace gate:--“Haste, haste, I bear
-    “Important tidings to the Sultan’s ear.”
-    Admittance granted, from his breast he drew
-    A scroll, and gave it to Alvante’s view:--
-    The Sultan open’d it--his steady cheek
-    Was little wont his inward thoughts to speak;                    280
-    But, as he read, his varying hue exprest
-    That Fury’s tortures rack’d his raging breast;--
-    Knit were his sable brows--his flashing eye
-    Shone like some orbit in a clouded sky;--
-    Fierce tow’rd his giant form, his hand of war
-    Stretch’d down to grasp his pond’rous scymitar;--
-    His sounding voice was like the thunder’s roll,
-    And all the hero swell’d his mighty soul:--
-    “’Tis well; the rebel boy shall rue the hour
-    “When first he dar’d to tempt Alvante’s pow’r:--
-    “Brav’d by a stripling! where is then this arm,
-    “At which whole squadrons fled with dire alarm?
-    “Am _I_ not king? and shall this Ismael dare
-    “To seize a crown which I alone should wear?--
-    “No, never no! but hence--command Reylain
-    “To draw our troops before high Tauris’ plain.”
-    He ceas’d--but still his mutt’ring tongue, the fire
-    Which flash’d his eye, declar’d his inward ire.
-    While deepest passions o’er his senses came,
-    The monarch’s musing, and the hero’s flame,                      300
-    Mingled with many a pang that conscience brought,
-    To dampen courage, and t’ embitter thought.
-
-
-VII.
-
-    His fav’rite slave approach’d, the salem made,
-    And some low words in whisp’ring accent said--
-    “’Tis right, them instant to our presence bring,”
-    With hasty tone replied the haughty king.
-    The doors of polish’d cedar open flew,
-    And gave a warrior legion to the view;
-    While, in the midst, fast bound in iron bands,
-    A warlike youth, with scorn indignant, stands:                   310
-    The simply-splendid garments that he wore,
-    Some blast of battle-storm had lately tore,
-    And the rich gold blush’d deep in harden’d gore;
-    Yet his bright face and form divine, where love
-    And war’s fierce monarch for the mastery strove,
-    Seem’d ’mid soil’d garb and fett’ring chains t’ exclaim,
-    “Behold a son of Conquest and of Fame.”
-
-    He that had seen his eye of azure fair,
-    (Tint in those darkly-glowing climes so rare,)
-    And the soft cygnet down, that now began                         320
-    His cheek to blossom, and to promise man,
-    And a sweet something o’er it spread--might trace
-    A woman’s softness in that god-like face.
-    But, had he seen the almost burning flame
-    That o’er his eye, when rous’d by wrath or fame,
-    Flash’d (like the lightning hurl’d from heav’nly arm,
-    When hush’d each wind, on ocean’s azure calm),
-    And, with a blaze that pierc’d the bosom’s core,
-    Made it still fiercer from the peace before:
-    And, had he mark’d the form, the tow’ring crest,                 330
-    The gait, that spurn’d the vile earth which it prest,
-    Oh! he would cry,--“Sure Glory’s charms alone
-    “Can call this youth of mightiness her own.”
-    As glares some lion on his num’rous foe;
-    So here and there bright flash’d his eye-ball’s glow:
-    Upon the guards who held him, first it beam’d;
-    Then to the Sultan’s lofty form it gleam’d:
-    Alvante met the fire with steady eye,
-    Which darted back the flame of majesty,                          339
-    Then, turning to the guards,--“Ye’ve speeded well,
-    “Where met ye this young warrior?--Sadi, tell.”--
-    With lowly salem, the time-serving man,
-    Pimp to his master’s vices, thus began:--
-
-
-VIII.
-
-    “Sultan of Persia, whose wide-spreading sway,
-    “With trembling awe an universe obey,
-    “List to thine humble slave!--As with this band
-    “I view’d afar green Caymyr’s fragrant land,
-    “And saw with horror, on its flow’ry plain,
-    “The rebel Ismael’s far-extending train,
-    “We met this youth; and on his breast the star,                  350
-    “Which marks the chiefs of Ismael’s impious war:
-    “We rush upon him!--in thy name command
-    “To yield his person to his Sultan’s band.
-    “No answer made he!--spurr’d his Arab horse,
-    “Bar’d his keen blade!--on us his driving course
-    “He dash’d impetuous;--we around him close,
-    “And pour on every side an iron show’r of blows.
-    “But he, his flashing sabre sweeping round,
-    “Roll’d four brave Moslems on the verdant ground:
-    “Then broke his weapon; or, perchance, his might
-    “Had brought him safely through th’ unequal fight.
-
-    “Then, as on some fair tree descends the storm,
-    “So rush’d our valiant soldiers on his form.
-    “But, when life hung upon that slender thread,
-    “I rear’d my sabre o’er his fenceless head:
-    “For I admir’d his courage, and I thought,
-    “If thus for Ismael he so bravely fought,
-    “His martial prowess, and his weighty hand,
-    “Might prove some succour to our Sultan’s band.”
-
-    He ceas’d:--Alvante, from his brows of pride,                    370
-    With wond’ring glance the youthful hero ey’d;
-    “What say’st thou, slave,” began the low’ring king;
-    ‘Slave, in thy teeth the dastard word I fling,’
-    Exclaim’d the youth; ‘no crouching craven I;
-    ‘Brave as thou art, of name perhaps as high!
-    ‘Wert thou and I, upon some desert place,
-    ‘Where, save our own, was never human trace,
-    ‘This arm perchance might teach thee, to thy wo,
-    ‘That it could deal no slave’s ignoble blow.’
-
-    In patient silence stern Alvante heard                           380
-    The youthful stranger’s fierce defying word;
-    Again with darkling eye he scann’d him o’er,
-    And certain grew the doubts he had before;
-    Then beam’d his joy in that dark-glowing hue,
-    That instant o’er his haughty features grew;
-    His hand half-drew the sabre from his side;
-    “Now, by my faith, ’tis Ismael’s self,” he cried:
-    “Prophet, I thank thee, that this glorious hour,
-    “My only dread is plac’d within my pow’r.                        389
-    “Guards, instant bring the bow-string--he shall die;
-    “His dying agonies shall glut mine eye:
-    “No, hold--the traitor shall not yield his breath
-    “By pang so short, and by so mild a death:
-    “Convey him to the darkest dungeon!--there
-    “Leave him, to nurse the horrors of despair,
-    “Whilst we devise some torture dire and new,
-    “Dreadful as man e’er felt, or demon knew;
-    “That, ere the chariot of the sun shall roll,
-    “Shall rack his form, and madden all his soul.”
-
-    With glance disdainful, and majestic pride,                      400
-    The tyrant’s frowns high Ismael scornful ey’d.
-    Then calmly turn’d away, and greater far
-    Than when in all the pomps of prosp’rous war,
-    Leaving, with footsteps firm, the regal room,
-    The guards he follow’d to his dungeon’s gloom.
-
-
-END OF CANTO I.
-
-
-
-
-ISMAEL.
-
-CANTO II.
-
-
-    “Let those who rule on Persia’s jewell’d throne,
-    “Be fam’d for love, and gentlest love alone,
-    “Or twine, like Abbas, full of fair renown,
-    “The lover’s myrtle with the warrior’s crown.”
-              Collins’s Oriental Eclogues.
-
-
-
-
-ISMAEL.
-
-CANTO II.
-
-
-I.
-
-    ‘Another hour is fled;--a few, few more,
-    ‘And life, and all its sweets, are ever o’er;
-    “’Tis hard in youth’s fair blossom to decay,
-    ‘And, like the dreams of midnight, pass away:
-    ‘To go--we scarce know where,--and, as the wind,
-    ‘To leave, alas! no ling’ring trace behind!
-
-    ‘This present sun upon my glory glow’d!--
-    ‘The next shall light me to my last abode!
-    ‘Farewell, ye scenes of youth, whose brightning hue
-    ‘Gave hopes and joys, so empty to my view!                        10
-    ‘Farewell, those hopes and joys!--thou bubble, Fame,
-    ‘Farewell! what art thou?--nothing but a name.
-    ‘Yet none, O none of these, once tinted high
-    ‘From this cold breast, can wring a single sigh,
-    ‘And never soul, save _one_, this heart of care
-    ‘Would loath for ever from its bonds to tear;
-    ‘But ah! that _one_, when thoughts of her arise,
-    ‘They pour my melting spirit from mine eyes.
-    ‘But this unmans me!--cease, thou ruthless thought,
-    ‘With woman’s softness, woman’s feeling fraught!’                 20
-
-    Thus Ismael sigh’d, as, on his stony bed,
-    In dungeon mirk, he lean’d his aching head,
-    And mem’ry pond’ring o’er the former day,
-    Recall’d dear cherished scenes, far, far away!
-
-
-II.
-
-    Hark, on the ear the roughly-sullen jar
-    Creaks harshly hoarse, of op’ning bolt and bar;
-    And Ismael started up, and turn’d his eye
-    To gaze on black expanse of vacancy;
-    And thought,--“’Tis morn, the tyrant’s abject train
-    ‘Are come to drag me to a death of pain.                          30
-    ’Tis well!--I am prepar’d--the fiend shall find
-    ‘That Ismael’s bosom holds no vulgar mind.’
-    Back on its pond’rous hinge the huge door flew,
-    And the grim gaoler met the pris’ner’s view.
-
-    High Ismael gaz’d in sullen, scornful mood,
-    On him (so whisper’d thought) the man of blood?
-    But when he saw the gaoler soft replace
-    The dungeon door, and then with noiseless pace
-    Steal where he lay; and, by the lamp he brought,
-    A glimm’ring glance of steely dagger caught;                      40
-    And mark’d him draw his cloke around, and creep
-    Like some assassin murd’ring infant sleep,
-    A pang of bootless rage, of shiv’ring chill,
-    Cross’d his proud soul with agonising thrill:--
-    ‘What, here shall Ismael yield a life so brave,
-    ‘To death so craven, by so base a slave;
-    ‘And not a limb to move?’ The bursting fire
-    Glar’d in his starting eye; in frantic ire,
-    With madd’ning rage, he shook, he gnaw’d the chain,
-    Dash’d, roll’d his form!--but each attempt was vain!
-    The last soul-piercing pang of rending life,                      51
-    Could never match that moment’s harrowing strife!
-
-    With finger rais’d to lip, with voice so drown’d,
-    That list’ning ear could scarcely catch the sound,
-    “Hush, hush,” the gaoler cried; “be still, and see,
-    Thy servant comes to set his Sultan free.”
-    Scarce had he said, when Ismael’s wond’ring eye
-    Saw at his feet the prostrate gaoler lie.
-    And heard, with wilder’d joy, the grateful sound
-    Of clinking fetters clashing on the ground;                       60
-    And raptur’d felt each limb of might again,
-    Free as the air that wantons o’er the main:
-    ‘O say what means all this’--“Hush, hush, my lord,
-    “The life of both hangs on a single word.
-    “This is no time for talk!--these garments take,
-    “Wrap them around you close!--the salem make
-    “If aught accost you; but, mind, no reply,
-    “Your part a mute, be silent, or you die!
-    “But, more for safety, take this sword; ’twill be
-    “Of use in peril--now then, follow me.”                           70
-    All this strange scene had pass’d so swift, to seem
-    To Ismael like th’ adventures of a dream;
-    But, when his hand the pond’rous sabre prest,
-    He felt his soul high heaving in his breast;
-    And courage whisper’d, ‘If I fall, my fate
-    Shall, like my life, be gloriously great.’
-
-    Meanwhile the gaoler, cautious as before,
-    Roll’d on its massy hinge, and barr’d the dungeon door;
-    Then down a mirky passage pacing slow,
-    They left that scene of horror and of wo.                         80
-
-
-III.
-
-    The hotly-beaming orb of noon-day’s sky,
-    Illum’d green Caymyr with his golden eye,
-    And cast a mellowing splendour, warm and bright,
-    O’er many a scene of beauty and delight.
-    Here the soft waters gliding, like the hours,
-    Through balmy banks of variegated flow’rs;
-    And here the camp, and here the martial train,
-    That, like himself, cast lustre on the plain:
-    And there, o’er yon wide hill, that grove of trees,
-    That fling their fragrance t’ th’ enamour’d breeze;               90
-    While where they leave an op’ning, give to view
-    Some tow’r, or temple, proudly frowning through:--
-    All seem’d as if in Union’s silken bands,
-    Young Love, and glorious War, had met to join their hands.
-
-    But through that num’rous army, rude commotion
-    Was like the storm that ruffles o’er the ocean;
-    Though louder, wilder was the mingled sound
-    Of thousand tongues that echoed o’er the ground;
-    The whisper’d murder, or the bolder cry
-    Of stern upbraiding, or of mutiny.                               100
-
-    And whence is this?--Their youthful chief alone
-    Is gone! but when--or where--to all unknown.
-    His tent is search’d, that night was pass’d not there,
-    His couch untouch’d, his absent steed, declare:
-    Throughout the camp, throughout the martial train,
-    They seek high Ismael,--but they seek in vain.
-
-    In anger stern, the chiefs together came,
-    Suspicion black’ning o’er their leader’s name.
-    In speaking silence, each glanc’d round on each,
-    All loath alike to be the first in speech                        110
-    To vent his wrath.--At length, each rolling eye
-    Is turn’d on one, who stands indignant by:
-    Bold was that chief, through all that conq’ring band
-    Not one surpassed the prowess of his hand.
-    But fierce in temper, “turbulent in tongue,”
-    He lov’d to lead the factions of the throng:
-    Abbas, his name. Rage sparkling in his eyes,
-    He mark’d the chiefs, and thus the warrior cries;--
-    “Say, is it meet, that here, while squadrons stand
-    “To fight and conquer at a boy’s command;                        120
-    “He, he the cause, the leader of the fray,
-    “Is gone in secret, fled, perchance, away?
-    “Say, is it meet, that we, whose rank and fame,
-    “Would some respect from mightier chieftains claim;
-    “Should thus be treated with contemptuous scorn;
-    “By Mahomet, ’tis no longer to be borne!
-    “Nor shall ye bear it! rouse, and let us own
-    “This wretch unworthy of so great a throne.”
-    Thus far he said, when to the listening heav’n
-    A long, loud shout of “Ismael! Ismael” ’s given.                 130
-    All that wide camp re-echoed with the name,
-    So high in glory, and so dear to fame.
-    And now towards the chieftain’s ample tent,
-    The clanging sounds of scouring steed are bent.
-    And each on each the assembled leaders gaze,
-    Fix’d to their stations in profound amaze.
-
-
-IV.
-
-    And Ismael enter’d on that busy scene,
-    With bearing princely, and with brow serene;
-    Saluting all around with regal grace,
-    He took his station in the vacant place.                         140
-    Straight to the earth, was bent each look of shame;
-    Straight o’er each cheek, the tingling colour came;
-    So motionless was ev’ry chieftain there,
-    That scarce a breathing died upon the car.
-
-    High Ismael rose!--in language short and cold,
-    Began th’ adventures of the night t’ unfold.
-    _The cause of all_, alone forbears to tell,
-    _His seeking her_ his bosom lov’d so well.
-
-    Nor had he finished his narration brief,
-    Ere the fierce rage of Abbas, haughty chief!                     150
-    That rage, which scarce had been restrain’d till now,
-    Burst like the flamings of red Ætna’s brow:--
-    “Go hence, thou liar! hence, thou smooth-tongued youth!
-    “To other ears go take thy tale of truth,
-    “For here ’tis not believ’d! Yet grant it true,
-    “What mighty aim could Ismael have in view,
-    “To leave his army on the very night
-    “Before he meant to lead it to the fight?
-    “Why should that gaoler too, in spite of danger
-    “Of his own life, free thee, to him a stranger?                  160
-    “And though I grant thy courser’s speed from here,
-    “In a few hours to Tauris’ walls, might bear,
-    “Yet, as that steed was captur’d, or was slain
-    “In combat with Alvante’s troops, again,
-    “How in so short a time did’st thou return,
-    “For when thou quitted thence, ’twas near the morn?
-
-    “Think’st thou, that Persia’s mightier sons will be
-    “The dupes of falsehood, and the slaves of thee?
-    “Perish the thought; this arm shall ne’er permit
-    “So base a wretch on Iran’s throne to sit.                       170
-    “’Tis my resolve!”--“And mine! and mine!” was sent
-    From ev’ry quarter of the crowded tent:
-    As up the chieftains rose, the sudden glare
-    Of hundred sabres glimmer’d in the air.
-    ‘And, traitor, this is mine,’ high Ismael cries,
-    Death on his brow, and fury in his eyes;
-    As flash’d his weapon forth, and through the head
-    Of Abbas, down e’en to the mouth it sped.
-    He fell:--o’er Ismael’s eye th’ expression came
-    Of pitying softness, conq’ring wrathful flame:                   180
-    He dropt the blade,--he sigh’d,--for he could glow
-    In soft compassion o’er a fallen foe.
-
-    He turn’d away--his eye-ball’s fire renew’d,
-    As red it roll’d where, half-repentant, stood
-    The low’ring chiefs amaz’d--the same wild band,
-    As when they first uprose, in look and stand.
-    The garb flung back, the haughty lips apart,
-    The voice just issuing from the swelling heart,
-    The foot advanc’d in menace, and the sword
-    High rear’d, to wreak the fury of its lord.                      190
-    They seem’d so still, and yet that still spoke more
-    Than thousand voices mix’d in loud uproar.
-
-
-V.
-
-
-    And Ismael cast on all his dark’ning eye,
-    That beam’d with stern and conscious dignity,
-    And thus he said,--‘It boots not Ismael, here
-    ‘In length of words his slighted fame to clear.
-    ‘But if, to prove mine honour, you are bent,
-    ‘My brave deliverer waits without the tent;
-    ‘Examine him or not, as suits you best,
-    ‘For truth, like gold, is purer from the test.                   200
-    ‘To use this traitor’s words, who, on the floor
-    ‘Sends out his treason on his ebbing gore,
-    ‘“Why should that gaoler too, in spite of danger
-    ‘“To his own life, free me, to him a stranger?”
-    “’Tis easy answer’d:--In the hostile strife,
-    ‘Some months ago, this arm had sav’d his life,
-    ‘Albeit a valiant foe, and set him free,
-    ‘Once more to taste the sweets of liberty:
-    ‘Since then Alvante rais’d him to the pow’r,
-    ‘Chief gaoler to the royal dungeon tow’r:                        210
-    ‘He knew me, and on Gratitude’s fair shrine
-    ‘Repaid the life I gave--by saving mine.
-
-    ‘Rude Abbas ask’d again, how, with such speed
-    ‘I here return’d, unaided by my steed.
-    ‘I had began t’ explain it--when the force
-    ‘Of his rash fury broke on my discourse.
-    ‘We had not long left Tauris, when the birth
-    ‘Of yonder sun began to wake the earth,
-    ‘And nature open’d all her stores of bliss,
-    ‘On hill and vale, to meet his golden kiss.                      220
-    ‘When, as we swift strode on, we turn’d our eye
-    ‘On two young horsemen slowly riding by;
-    ‘What should be done?--we wanted steeds--and now
-    ‘Fate in our way these travellers seem’d to throw:
-    ‘We hasten’d to them--mildly proffer’d gold
-    ‘To yield their steeds--they were not to be sold:
-    ‘We seiz’d the reins--we bar’d our blades--and swore
-    ‘That we would buy them with their master’s gore:
-    ‘They heard our threaft’nings, and they mark’d our pow’rs,
-    ‘The caitiffs trembled--and the steeds were ours.                230
-    ‘Scarce had we mounted, ere the distant sound
-    ‘Of clanking horse-treads rush’d along the ground.
-    ‘Away we speed--a neighbouring hill we gain--
-    ‘We look behind--we view Alvante’s train
-    ‘In hot pursuance:--like the winged wind,
-    ‘Off, off we scour, and leave them far behind,
-    ‘And noon has view’d us here arrive, t’ assuage
-    ‘The clam’rous treason of suspicious rage.
-
-    ‘But now, away; ere evening’s shadows fall,
-    ‘Our bands shall revel in Alvante’s hall.                        240
-    ‘This is the moment of propitious fate;
-    ‘Alvante’s name is held in general hate:
-    ‘At our approach the gates shall open fly,
-    ‘And thou art all our own, O Victory!’
-    He ceas’d: on every chieftain’s war-worn face,
-    Of former fury vanish’d every trace;
-    On each stern brow, swart cheek, and lofty mien,
-    Nought but the hope of coming fame is seen.
-    As their dark eyes, with admiration warm,
-    Glanc’d on their leader’s soul-inspiring form,                   250
-    As high it tower’d, a something like divine,
-    A heav’n-born ray around it seem’d to shine;
-    His kindling soul flash’d glory from his eyes,
-    And to his voice, that gleam of enterprise
-    Had giv’n a tone prophetic; as it roll’d,
-    He seem’d a being of immortal mould.
-    And loud they cry, as high is rear’d each sword,
-    “Long live great Ismael, Persia’s mighty lord.”
-    Forth from the tent then rush’d the warrior-train,
-    And here, and there, disperse along the plain;                   260
-    Swift sink the tents, the bands in many a throng,
-    Arm,--form their deep’ning squares,--and sweep along.
-
-
-VI.
-
-    Commotion hovers with her dark wide wings,
-    O’er Persia’s stately city; there she brings
-    Her sister, wild Amaze; each dweller’s soul
-    There, owns those kindred demons’ joint control.
-    On every form, on every busy mien,
-    Nought but one mixt expression there was seen;
-    But that expression told of all the train
-    Of throbbing passions that usurp the brain.                      270
-    There, you might trace young joy, but also there
-    Spoke something like the reign of fear, of care,
-    Of wonder, of confusion: sight and speech,
-    Like freezing streams, seem’d half bound up in each.
-
-    As they pour’d from their houses, like the bees
-    That leave their hives, and throng the fragrant trees,
-    The only sound that fell upon the ear,
-    Was (faintly mutter’d) “Ismael is near!”
-    ’Till, as the news gain’d ground, the clamours rise,
-    And “Ismael! Ismael!” rend the list’ning skies.                  280
-    Some fling the high gates open--some loud cry,
-    “Perish the proud Alvante;” while they fly
-    To seek the palace, and the court to force,
-    And send th’ usurper on his long, last course.
-
-    The gen’ral shouts, the long and deaf’ning din,
-    Alvante heard, his stately halls within:
-    He started up in wonder and alarm;
-    The flashing sabre found his giant arm.
-    “Hark! hark! methought I heard that hated name,
-    “What, is it Ismael?--hark! again--the same.”                    290
-    Then his friend Muly rush’d within that room,
-    Trembling his form, and pale as cygnet’s plume
-    His vet’ran cheek:--‘Fly, fly, ere yet too late,
-    ‘The clam’rous throng are at the palace gate;
-    ‘Thine head they swear’--(hark, hark, again that roar!)--
-    ‘Shall pay for all the streams of kindred gore
-    ‘Thou’st caus’d to flow; in vain we’ve tried t’assuag
-    ‘Their treasonous tumults, and their guilty rage.
-    ‘They cry that Ismael’s bands are sweeping now,
-    ‘In swift procession, o’er yon mountain’s brow.                  300
-    ‘O fly, O fly to shield thy regal form,
-    ’Till lull’d the beating dangers of the storm,--
-    ‘Haste to Armenia, that e’er loyal land
-    ‘Will yield my sultan many a mighty band;
-    ‘Haste, haste, O haste!’--“And whither should I fly?
-    “Here in his courts must king Alvante die;
-    “King am I now, and Death will lose his sting,
-    “E’en ’mid his grasp, to think I die a king.”
-    ‘And think’st thou, if thou tarriest here, thy fate
-    ‘Will be in all the royalty of state?                            310
-    ‘That thou’lt fall nobly? No, a slave thou’lt die,
-    ‘Brought out to grace thy victor’s victory;
-    ‘To feast his minions with thy dying wo;
-    ‘(Hark, hark, the rebels burst the gates below!)
-    ‘This door will lead us hence,--away, away,
-    ‘Lost is your life, your kingdom, if you stay!
-    ‘But hold!--I have it!--cast these garments on,
-    ‘Muffle your face, and mingle with the throng;
-    ‘Then unperceiv’d escape, and haste to gain
-    ‘The troops of conquest in Armenia’s plain;                      320
-    ‘But now away.’ Though more than mortal brave,
-    A natural wish his life, his realms to save,
-    Alvante felt. If tarrying here, he knew
-    That he must die, and die ignobly too.
-    If for awhile he went, Armenia might,
-    By fortune aided, place him in his right.
-
-    He instinctively clasp’d the muffling vest
-    In many a fold around his face and breast,
-    And both are now disguis’d! one moment more,
-    And they have past yon gold-enamell’d door,                      330
-    And mingled with the throng--and to the sky,
-    Now, they have join’d the gen’ral clam’rous cry.
-    A leader mark’d their garb--their mien--their tone--
-    Again he turn’d to view them--they are gone.
-
-
-VII.
-
-    By Tauris’ walls, along the delving plain,
-    Swift drive young Ismael’s far-extending train;
-    On yonder hill, has paus’d the setting sun,
-    To mark their glories ere his race be run,
-    And loves his splendour o’er their arms to cast,
-    Type of their fame, ere yet that splendour’s past;               340
-    Forth from the walls, like billows on the deep,
-    In one vast mass the joyous numbers sweep.
-
-    “Welcome, great Chief! welcome, the golden hour,
-    “That frees us from the tyger-tyrant’s pow’r;
-    “Welcome, O welcome; see our gates are riv’n,
-    “T’ admit, to welcome thee, O son of heav’n.
-    “O let us shout, O let us gladly sing,
-    “Long life to Ismael, glory to our King!”
-
-    Upon a milk-white steed, high Ismael rode,
-    That pranc’d exulting in his mighty load;                        350
-    And that great warrior, cast in Beauty’s mould,
-    Blaz’d like a god-head in his arms of gold.
-    From hill, from vale, around, and from afar,
-    Roll’d the loud music of tremendous war;
-    The awful gong, the trumpet’s brazen tone,
-    And the rough thunder of the tymbalon,
-    The rude, yet rousing clashings of the zel,
-    The hollow blast of Süankos’ shell.
-    While, like some meteor rising here and there,
-    The wide, bright banners wanton’d in the air.                    360
-    Thus, while their welcome path, on every side,
-    All Tauris hails, full royally they ride;
-    And, ’mid the clamours of th’ admiring crowd,
-    That hail th’ auspicious march; yon palace proud
-    (With not a drop of blood upon his sword,)
-    Receives another, and a mightier lord.
-
-
-VIII.
-
-    Mark’st thou yon banners waving in the gale?
-    Mark’st thou yon troops, that over hill and vale
-    Their martial numbers pour; and, spreading far,
-    Now thirst impatient for the coming war?                         370
-    And mark’st thou, fiercely, there, against them bent,
-    Yon wide, and long, and glorious armament?
-    And mark’st thou too that chief, whose brows appear
-    Like sable clouds, that in night’s dark’ning sphere
-    Hang o’er two blazing stars; whose awful form,
-    Is as some tow’r amid the whelming storm;
-    Whose all-defying mien, whose stern, wild air,
-    Luxuriant Fancy might perhaps compare
-    To angel Eblis, when rebellious driv’n,
-    Destruction breathing, from the courts of heav’n?                380
-    Who is that warrior?--who!--and can that mien
-    Be e’er forgotten, when once known, once seen?
-    It is Alvante!--Bulwark of the fight,
-    Whose sword is vengeance, and whose arm is might.
-    Who’d safe arrived, with his faithful friend,
-    His care-beguiler, to Armenia’s land;
-    And with Moratcham, whom he had subdued,
-    His rebel brother, he his league renew’d.
-    ’Twere strange to mark their meeting, how they came,
-    Souls fierce as sparkles in the rising flame.                    390
-    How loth to speak the first: each eye-ball’s swell
-    Beam’d on the earth, where scarce it e’er had fell
-    Before; how sullen, like a wayward child,
-    They sooth’d, they soften’d, and they reconcil’d.
-    But well I ween, that spirits proud and strong
-    Like theirs, can never intermingle long.
-    And even now they half-reluctant go,
-    Hand link’d in hand, against a mutual foe,
-    To wage a mutual war.--They part awhile,
-    Moratcham hast’ning to Assyria’s soil,                           400
-    Fresh troops to raise; while to Armenia’s skies,
-    In warlike pride, Alvante’s banners rise,
-    And numbers daily to those banners came,
-    Or led by plunder, or arous’d by fame.
-
-    Meantime young Ismael hears the dread alarms,
-    Of his great enemy’s increasing arms.
-    Again his standard on the breezes burst;
-    Again his bands, in ancient victories nurst,
-    He wakes; and, as the Simoom’s fiery breath,
-    That wafts the kiss of pestilential death;                       410
-    Fate-bearing Ismael, glorying in his might,
-    Destruction’s sabre bar’d, and rush to meet the fight.
-
-    From wide Assyria, young Moratcham led
-    A martial squadron to his brother’s aid;
-    But Ismael, with his courage, mingling still
-    The sage’s prudence and the leader’s skill,
-    Prevents their joining; and now hastes to dare
-    Th’ enraged Alvante to the scenes of war:
-    And that bold chief determines, with this band,
-    Cull’d from the bravest of Armenia’s land,                       420
-    Upon the fight to set his fortunes all,
-    A king to conquer, or a king to fall.
-
-    But lo, the thick’ning masses move, and slow
-    Advance in order, ’gainst th’ advancing foe.
-    And hark, that crash!--The mingling hosts engage,
-    Blood streams, and armour clangs, and all is war and rage;
-    Man combats man, on hero hero dies,
-    Glares sword on sword, and ring the battle cries.
-    High in the air the hov’ring vultures soar,
-    And scream impatient for their feast of gore.                    430
-    On the shock’d earth the slaughter’d numbers roll,
-    And glory burns in every warrior’s soul;
-    The battle-fields, like cauldrons, fiercely boil,
-    And Azrail claps his iron wings and claims the soil.
-    Tremendous is that scene of carnage fell,
-    No mortal tongue its horrors e’er can tell!
-
-    As, when on some thick forest’s lofty head,
-    From high, some fierce autumnal blast is sped,
-    Drives through the leafy throng its rabid way,
-    And shakes their thousand branches with dismay;                  440
-    The leaves, the boughs, the trees themselves around
-    Are swept away, and scatter’d on the ground:
-    So stern Alvante, with resistless might,
-    Cleaves his red pathway through the groves of fight.
-    War-loving Azrail, Death’s tremendous lord,
-    Frowns on his crest, and hovers on his sword.
-    Bath’d in red streams of hostile gore, where’er
-    Tow’rs his proud form, confusion wild is there.
-
-    His bands scarce think him mortal, and, inspir’d
-    By his example, think that God has fir’d                         450
-    Their swelling breasts; and, like the billowy deep,
-    Fierce (led by him) against the foe they sweep.
-    They thin the hostile ranks, who, in dismay,
-    In more than fear, half-routed, yield them way.
-    Then, in that moment, when Alvante’s eye
-    Saw the bright beams of coming victory;
-    When, in idea, his hand has grasp’d again
-    With raptur’d joy, the throne of Iran: then,
-    Then, in that moment of eventful strife,
-    Worth a whole age of common, passive life;                       460
-    Before Alvante’s way, at headlong speed,
-    A youthful chief has spurr’d his snowy steed.
-    Each combatant has rous’d him from the fight,
-    Awhile to gaze on that high form of might.
-    But Iran’s genius, as aloft she flew,
-    Hung back, and trembled at the dangerous view:
-    For, in that god-like youth, she marks too well
-    Her last, lone hope, her favour’d Ismael.
-    ‘Come on,’ he cries, ‘proud tyrant; come, and know
-    ‘That thou wilt combat with no vulgar foe;                       470
-    ‘Use thy whole art and strength; for I am he,
-    ‘Worthy alone, to fight--to conquer thee.
-    ‘I come arm’d in my bleeding country’s might!
-    “’Tis Ismael, chief, who wooes thee to the fight!’
-    Alvante answered not, but in the flame
-    That flash’d his brow, and glar’d his eye-balls, came
-    A dreadful something, eager to destroy,
-    An horrid energy, a demon joy.
-    So high he rear’d his blade, it seem’d that fate
-    Upon one blow from that dread arm would wait.                    480
-    But Ismael’s courser, practis’d in the war,
-    Swerv’d, and the sabre cut the yielding air.
-    Not so did Ismael’s blade, though broke its force,
-    Through the steel corselet it has ta’en its course,
-    And gash’d full sore:--and now the strokes so fast
-    From either arm, to either form are past,
-    That scarce the eye-ball’s searching glance can know,
-    Where giv’n, where parried, or receiv’d the blow;
-    Save by the sparks that from their armour flash’d,
-    Save by the gore, that from the corselets gash’d,                490
-    Pour’d in long streams; the drops upon the plain
-    Fell from their brows, like pattering of rain:
-    And every stroke was aim’d full strong and true,
-    For each great chieftain ’mid the combat knew,
-    That all the war was on a single hand,
-    That Iran’s empire hung upon his brand.
-
-    A foe so dread, Alvante never yet
-    In conflict’s thickest walks of heroes met;
-    And ne’er had Ismael, mid th’ embattled throng,
-    Known eye so keen, and arm so swift and strong.                  500
-    Each stroke, that like the flash of lightning past,
-    Seem’d fiercer, heavier, mightier than the last;
-    Till Ismael felt his youthful arm at length,
-    Weaken its blows, and slacken in its strength;
-    While stern Alvante, like some massy tow’r,
-    Still seem’d to combat with the prime of pow’r:
-    But Ismael hop’d one blow, that should contain
-    All his remaining strength, should smite him on the plain.
-
-    He nerv’d his arm, he rear’d it high in air,
-    Then downwards drove the pondrous scymitar;                      510
-    Alvante’s sword receiv’d that dreadful stroke,--
-    And Ismael’s treach’rous blade snapp’d short, and broke.
-
-    Over Alvante’s face appear’d to play
-    A wild ecstatic joy, a dreadful ray;
-    And o’er his eye’s dark field of fierceness flew
-    A something, O! too horrible to view!
-    “Now, now thine hour is come,” he inly said,
-    And high in air, he rear’d his shining blade.
-
-    Then Persia’s Genius, as she soar’d on high,
-    Trembled with fear, at Ismael’s death so nigh.                   520
-    Among the darts, that cleave the airy tides,
-    She singles one, and to Alvante guides:
-    Then in that moment, through his bending head,
-    When thund’ring down his massy blade, it sped.
-    Th’ exulting speech has fainted from his tongue,
-    From his numb’d hand down dropt the sword and rung
-    Useless on earth; the swarthy colour flies,
-    The field recedes upon his glazing eyes,
-    And Azrail’s cold tremendous shades around him rise.
-    He fell! still Ismael held his stifled breath,                   530
-    Still waiting for the dire approach of death;
-    And, though he saw him fall, yet still he deem’d
-    ’Twas not reality, but that he dream’d.
-    At length he thought the coming stroke of fate,
-    From fierce Alvante, linger’d long and late:
-    He lifts his eyes--he sees him not--again,
-    Surpris’d, he drops them on the purple plain,
-    And there he views him!--Oh! how chang’d his state!
-    That arm, so dread--how cold, inanimate!
-    Then, then he felt it all! then, then it came                    540
-    Swiftly upon him, like the glance of flame:
-    He bent his body o’er his steed, his hand
-    Seiz’d from the earth, his enemy’s red brand;
-    Then lifts his voice, and dashes mid the crowd,
-    ‘Alla! il Alla!’ shouting, long and loud.
-    New strength has nerv’d his weaken’d arm; where’er
-    It rises, death and destiny are there.
-    His troops have caught his fire, and to the heav’n,
-    ‘Alla! il Alla! and his Ismael!’ ‘s given.
-    On, on they drive:--in thunder-struck dismay,                    550
-    On every side Alvante’s troops give way;
-    They fly tumultuous, or, around the plain,
-    By pow’rs resistless, fall in heaps of slain.
-
-
-X.
-
-    The setting sun his parting beams has shed
-    On many a pile of dying, and of dead;
-    Emblem of life! like his last dying ray,
-    Thousands have seen the closing of their day;
-    Have, when he sunk beneath yon hill, and fir’d
-    The plains beneath, with mellowing blaze--expired.
-    There, by yon palm, that waves its arms on high,                 560
-    A youthful chief has laid him down to die;
-    His mother’s last, lone hope, her joy, her pride:
-    Three other sons, by war’s o’erwhelming tide,
-    Had long been swept away: and he, now gasping here,
-    Was left alone, her aged breast to cheer.
-    And must he also die? in life’s gay morn,
-    And leave her wretched (like a wreck forlorn):
-    And she now sits at home; and thinks the while,
-    That fate, propitious, on his arms will smile;
-    That glory’s hand will gild his youthful name,                   570
-    With laurels gather’d in the field of fame.
-    How fruitless all her cares--her hopes how vain--
-    He ne’er will bless her widow’d sight again!
-    From his cold heart fast ebb the torrents red,
-    Down sinks his arm, he’s dying!--ah! he’s dead!
-
-    And there, by yonder shelt’ring hill, is laid
-    Expiring Seyd, the once-fam’d Renegade.
-    From his own country banished; all he lov’d
-    Were left behind, and hither he had rov’d.
-    Then he was young, and fate might have in store,                 580
-    To cheer the future, many a blessing more:
-    But, in one fatal hour, of sense bereft,
-    All, all was withered--for his God he left!
-    Black were his ringlets then, they now are grey;
-    Yet ne’er could mem’ry quit that dreadful day;
-    He rush’d to battle, glory met him there,
-    For in Seyd’s bosom, courage was despair.
-    Years roll’d away, and found him still the same,
-    Deep sunk in guilt, yet conscious of his shame;
-    And now, alas! that guilt has brought him here,                  590
-    Without a friend his dying hour to cheer;
-    Upon the past he turns his desperate eye,
-    A long, long scene of guilt and infamy;
-    Upon the future,--no!--he does not dare
-    To cast a look on what awaits him there;
-    And fain he’d lift his thoughts to heav’n, and fain
-    Would pray once more; to him th’ attempt is vain:
-    He rears him up, towards his native shore
-    He rolls his eye;--peace,--he can gaze no more.
-
-
-XI.
-
-    And Ismael dropp’d the blade, and wav’d his hand,                600
-    From the pursuit to stay his conq’ring band.
-    ‘Hold, hold, my friends; no longer drive the blow
-    ‘Against a vanquish’d, and unworthy foe:
-    ‘Hold, and remember mercy’s soft control
-    ‘Should e’er be dearest to a hero’s soul.
-    ‘Cease the pursuit: and haste to search the field,
-    ‘Haste to the wounded, every help to yield;
-    ‘Nor to _our_ bands _alone_, but also those
-    ‘Whom fate or chance have number’d with our foes:
-    ‘And then, to mighty Alla let us give                            610
-    ‘The debt of gratitude, that still we live--
-    ‘That conquest’s ours: while coming night shall steep
-    ‘The toils of slaughter in the sweets of sleep.
-    ‘Although to-morrow’s dawning sun must see
-    ‘Us march again to war and victory;
-    ‘Must mark us go to wield the conq’ring brand
-    ‘Against Moratcham’s far-inferior band,
-    ‘To place me on my glorious grandsire’s throne,
-    ‘And then--O Selyma, I’m all thine own!’
-
-
-
-
-NOTES
-
-ON CANTO I.
-
-
-Stanza I.
-
-    “_Spread Ismael’s banners to the wanton breeze._”
-
-For the better understanding of several passages in this Poem, I will
-here subjoin a short account of the claims of my hero, Ismael, to the
-throne of Persia, and a brief history of his life.
-
-Usum Cassan, king of Persia, gave his daughter, Martha, in marriage to
-Shich-Eidar, a certain sage, famous for a new sect of religion, and for
-extraordinary piety and virtue.
-
-At Usum Cassan’s death, he was succeeded by his son Jacup, but he being
-murdered by his wife, Julaver, a man of high rank, and a distant
-relation to him, seized the throne, and dying, after three years, was
-succeeded by Baysinger, and at his death, the crown came to a young
-nobleman named Rustam.
-
-Though no one had a better (nor indeed so good a) right to the kingdom
-of Persia as Shich-Eidar, on account of his marriage with Usum Cassan’s
-daughter, yet his birth being inferior to those who had hitherto
-reigned, and being so entirely absorbed in the care of religion, and the
-sweets of retirement; during the sway of the three preceding kings,
-there was not even any mention of him, or his pretensions. But Rustam
-was alarmed at the numbers who daily flocked to Shich-Eidar, to embrace
-his religious principles, and he was afraid of the reverence which the
-Persians paid to his high virtues and brilliant talents, and of their
-secret attachment to the race of Usum Cassan; he therefore resolved to
-rid himself of so formidable an object for his fears, and employed
-assassins, who murdered the unfortunate sage at his residence in
-Ardevil. But Rustam was afterwards slain in his turn by Achmet, who is
-said _to have been favoured by the king’s own mother, and aided by her
-in the death of her son_.
-
-The murderer seized the crown, but enjoyed it only six months, when
-Carabes, one of Rustam’s ancient officers, collecting a considerable
-body of soldiers, marched straight to Tauris, then the capital of
-Persia, and surprising Achmet, who was in no condition to resist, put
-him to death, by the most dreadful (though almost merited) tortures.
-
-The throne being thus vacant, Alvante, a nobleman of high rank, was
-chosen to fill it.
-
-Shich-Eidar left three sons, who would have shared the same fate as
-their father, had they fallen into Rustam’s hands. The two eldest fled,
-one to Asia Minor, the other to Aleppo, and the third, Ismael, then only
-a child, was secretly conveyed, by his father’s friends, to Hyrcania or
-Ghilan; where he was protected by Pyrchalim, a nobleman then in
-possession of several places on the Caspian Sea. Pyrchalim caused him to
-be reared in the religious tenets of Shich-Eidar, and the youth
-perceiving that was the best way to acquire popular favour, of which he
-had great need to support the just pretensions he had to the throne,
-shewed a great zeal to observe, and to propagate, his paternal sect. As
-he was possessed of great personal beauty, and inherited all the
-splendid abilities of his father, combined with great courage and
-eloquence, he was soon joined, not only by the common people, but also
-by many of high rank.
-
-His first success in arms, was the regaining certain lands in Armenia,
-which had been given his mother as her dowry, and afterwards being
-reinforced by many of Shich-Eidar’s old disciples, he attacked the
-castle of Mamurlac, and after having taken and plundered it, he led his
-victorious army to Sumach, the capital of Mesopotamia, which he also
-took, and gave the spoils to his soldiers. At the noise of these first
-exploits, and at the immense booty acquired by those who followed his
-standard, numbers daily flocked to him from all parts, and he soon found
-himself at the head of a considerable army, with which he resolved to
-march immediately to Tauris, where Alvante, lately placed upon the
-throne, held his court. That monarch had but just recovered from the
-fatigues and confusion of a civil war with Moratcham, his brother (or,
-as some assert, his son), who disputed the crown with him, and having
-lost an important battle, had fled from the Persian territories.
-
-The severe persecutions which Alvante had exercised, after his victory,
-upon several of the chiefs of Tauris, who had taken part with his
-opponent, rendered his name odious, and presented Ismael with a very
-fair opportunity, who no sooner came before the city, than the gates
-were thrown open. Alvante, who suspected nothing of this irruption into
-his capital, without troops, and aware of the hatred entertained against
-him by the whole city, was obliged to fly (and as one author relates) in
-disguise: and Ismael entered triumphantly into Tauris, without shedding
-the least blood, except of a few of Alvante’s guards.
-
-In the mean time Moratcham had reconciled himself to his brother
-Alvante, for the purpose of repelling their common enemy, the former
-hastened to Assyria to raise forces, and the latter was already at the
-head of a large army in Armenia: there Ismael followed him, and
-(preventing Moratcham’s joining his brother, which was their intention,)
-defeated him in a battle, in which Alvante fell, bravely fighting at the
-head of his troops. Moratcham, hearing of his brother’s fate, carried
-his army towards Tauris, but Ismael intercepting him, totally routed and
-put him to flight.
-
-After this, Ismael reigned gloriously for twenty-five years, and died in
-peaceable possession of one of the most powerful monarchies in the
-world, having verified the predictions of Shich-Eidar, who was a very
-skilful astrologer, and who had foretold,--“That this “son of his should
-one day by his zeal and conquests “almost equal the glory of Mahomet
-himself.”
-
-
-Stanza III.--Line 119.
-
-    “_And she for safety from the civil war._”
-
-It must be remembered that Ismael first attacked Armenia, &c. before his
-successes made him so bold as to strike so adventurous a blow as
-attacking Alvante in his own capital. It was the custom of those who
-inhabited the provinces, and who were too peaceably inclined to mix in
-the intestine commotions that so often occur in the East, to remove
-their families and effects as near the capital as possible, though this
-scheme must appear very injudicious to one who reflects that the chief
-city is generally the most harrassed, ultimately.
-
-
-NOTE
-
-ON CANTO II.
-
-
-Stanza VII.--Line 358.
-
-“_The hollow blast of Süankos’ shell._”
-
-The Süankos cannot properly be called a war instrument, although in the
-earlier ages of Persia, and even perhaps in Ismael’s time, it was made
-use of for that purpose. It is at present often used as a trumpet, for
-sounding an alarm, or a signal. Its tones are deep and hollow.
-
-
-
-
-TO
-
-LADY C---- L----,
-
-     Who, at the Private Races given by Lord D----, set a noble example
-     of humanity and feeling; when a poor man being much hurt, she had
-     him conveyed to her carriage, and interested herself most anxiously
-     in his recovery.
-
-_Written at Fifteen._
-
-
-    Daughter of Feeling, Queen of Love,
-      ’Tis to thee these lines are due,
-    With all the beauty of the dove,
-      Hast thou then her nature too!
-
-    Though formed in Woman’s purest mould;
-      Though form’d ’mid crowds and courts to shine;
-    Though in thy pow’r to stand enroll’d,
-      The boast of M----’s favour’d line:
-
-    Yet has that hand which kings might prize,
-      Deign’d to relieve the poor man’s wo,                           10
-    Yet have those all-subduing eyes,
-      With Pity’s dew-drop deign’d to flow.
-
-    Thy guardian angel hov’ring near,
-      Soar’d upwards with that deed of thine,
-    And as he dropt the applauding tear,
-      Wrote down the name of C----.
-
-
-
-
-TO LADY W----,
-
-PLAYING ON THE HARP, ACCOMPANIED BY HER VOICE.
-
-_Written Extempore, at the Age of Fifteen._
-
-
-    Cease, cease, in pity cease your lay;
-    Would you melt the soul away?
-    And, while such rapture you impart,
-    Thrill the ear, but steal the heart?
-
-    Must every Godhead bring some grace,
-    To aid th’ enchantment of your face?
-    Must Venus give the beauty warm?
-    Must Pallas mould the radiant form?
-    Must Jove his lightnings yield, and sigh
-    To see them melting in your eye?                                  10
-    But not, alas! with these content,
-    To make us all your vot’ries bent,
-    Oh, must Apollo too inspire,
-    To burn our bosoms, all his fire?
-
-
-
-
-AN ODE
-
-TO THE MUSE OF VERSE.
-
-Irregular,
-
-_Written at Fourteen_.
-
-
-    O come, thou Goddess ever fair,
-    Who lov’st to braid thy golden hair
-    With many a wreath of laurel bright,
-    From old Parnassus’ sacred height!
-    Whither, beneath some time-devoted tow’r,
-    Thou lov’st to pass the solitary hour;
-    And slowly-solemn pour along the pensive verse,
-    Or the bright deeds of chivalry rehearse;
-    And view by fairy Fancy’s magic sway,
-    Old deeds long done, and years long past away.                    10
-
-    Or, if beneath some spreading tree,
-    Thou lov’st the sounds of jollity;
-    And, with thy laughing song, to raise
-    The rural dance’s sportive maze;
-    While, oft attracted by thy song,
-    Nymphs and satyrs join the throng,
-    And interweaving at the sound,
-    Lightly skim the verdant ground;
-    While every bird, on every tree,
-    Is lull’d to catch the melody:                                    20
-    And e’en the zephyr’s wanton gale,
-    Moves not a leaf amid the dale,
-    But folds his wings, and creeping near,
-    Imbibes the notes with ravish’d ear;
-    And when is broke the silver tone,
-    When Rapture’s fled, and thou art gone,
-    Still, still, he linger’s o’er the scene
-    Where Poesy divine has been,
-    And strives again, though vainly, to rehearse
-    The fire of Music, and the soul of Verse.                         30
-
-    Or by rose-embalm’d bow’r, or murmuring stream,
-    If Love, king of passions, inspires thy theme;
-    That blessing the purest, to man, from above,
-    They gave us all, all, in that blessing of love.
-      Oh still let me hov’ring nigh,
-        Strive to catch the heav’nly fire,
-      When with wildly-beaming eye,
-      Glancing upward to the sky,
-      As if to seize the spirit there,
-      Thy tresses streaming to the air,                               40
-        Thou strik’st the hallow’d lyre.
-      Oh who can tell the heart’s ecstatic play,
-    So sweetly pensive, so sublimely pure,
-    When wand’ring far from world’s disgusting lure,
-      The Muse bewitching wafts the soul away.
-
-    In sickness, pain, or care, or strife,
-    In all the woes that wait on life,
-    Thy pow’r can soothing balm impart,
-    And lull to sleep the breaking heart.
-
-    Come then, Goddess, if from high,                                 50
-    E’er thou’st heard thy vot’ry sigh,
-    Come, and o’er my ravish’d soul
-    Hold thy soft, thy sweet control!
-    O let me soar on Fancy’s wing,
-    Where Piërus pours his sacred spring,
-    And while such joys divine thy pow’r can give,
-    Beneath thy reign, O ever let me live!
-
-
-
-
-ODE TO A POKER.
-
-_Written at Thirteen Years Old._
-
-
-    Hail, blithsome wand, and bring with thee,
-    Dancing mirth, and airy glee!
-    When the laughing jest goes round,
-    And sparkling wit’s enliv’ning sound;
-    By the fire, thy cheerful mien
-    On winter’s dark’ning eve is seen.
-
-    Oft thy gladsome stirs inspire
-    Strains from Bard’s poetic lyre;
-    Of winning love, or times of old;
-    Of courtly dames, and barons bold;                                10
-    Or some high deed of ancient knight,
-    Achiev’d in tournament, or fight.
-    Oft, when ’gainst the echoing shore,
-    The hail-drops beat, the tempests roar,
-    Shelter’d from the raging storm,
-    The trav’ller warms his cold-pinch’d form.
-    With thee in hand, derides the rain,
-    Beating down the glassy pane.
-
-    Oft when, at some ghostly tale,
-    With fear, each ruddy cheek is pale;                              20
-    And half-asham’d, and half-dismay’d,
-    They startle at each other’s shade;
-    And fancying, that the ghost they saw,
-    Around the fire they nearer draw;
-    Then, perhaps, some hoary sire
-    Stirs, with thee, the waning fire;
-    And every eye, now grown more bold,
-    Explores the curtain’s mystic fold,
-    Where just before, by terror’s aid,
-    They saw the spectre’s gliding shade;                             30
-    And laughing at each other’s fears,
-    Again the wonted blush appears.
-
-    And oft, when talk has ebb’d apace,
-    And melancholy shewed her face;
-    Thy spirit-rousing aid once more,
-    Renew’d the pleasure lost before.
-    Friendship, love, and all that life
-    Yields to cheer this scene of strife,
-    Courting oft thy fairy pow’r,
-    Gaily pass the jovial hour,                                       40
-    While joy and mirth new blessings bring,
-    And care, awhile, forgets her sting.
-
-
-
-
-TO K----
-
-THE SEAT OF MRS. ----
-
-_Written at Fifteen Years Old._
-
-    Hail, lofty domes, hail, venerable place,
-    The noble dwelling of a nobler race.
-    High on an hill, thy stately fabric rears
-    Its ancient summit, mark’d by rolling years;
-    By woods surrounded, and by fertile fields,
-    Thy cultur’d soil abundant plenty yields.
-    Here, giant groves in sweeping grandeur rise,
-    There, lengthen’d prospects meet th’ admiring eyes.
-    But thou, who gazest on yon graceful dome,
-    That seems to rival e’en the works of Rome,                       10
-    Where blooms life’s fading emblem, yonder rose,
-    ’Tis there, the ashes of the dead repose!
-
-    Oh pause thou there, this awful lesson learn,
-    “That dust thou art, to dust shalt thou return.”
-    Now from the heav’ns, the queen of twilight grey,
-    Mellows each object with her silvery ray.
-    ’Tis silence all!--’tis that lone pensive hour,
-    When Fancy reigns in all her magic pow’r,
-    When o’er the poet’s lull’d, enraptur’d soul,
-    She holds her sweet, her undefin’d control!                       20
-
-    K----, how chang’d from those old feudal hours,
-    When minstrel’s music echoed through thy tow’rs;
-    When steel-clad knights rode forth in glorious pride,
-    And led their troops to combat by their side.
-    Or at their castles tournaments proclaim,
-    And enter lists, to gain the wreath of fame.
-    From beauty’s hand receive the valued meed,
-    While plauding shouts approve the martial deed.
-    And when the gath’ring shades of eve would call
-    Our great forefathers to the festive hall,                        30
-    There, in vast bowls, the grape’s rich liquor pour’d,
-    And wholesome viands smok’d along the board;
-    Such as were wont an hero’s hall to grace,
-    Ere yet, refinement reach’d our hardy race;--
-    Ere yet, we learn’d, from nations we subdued,
-    To spurn at Freedom’s hospitable food.
-    To every lip the joyous toast went round,
-    And frolic laughter gambol’d o’er the ground;
-    While from the lofty gallery swell’d the lays,
-    Of some past deed of old heroic days;                             40
-    Perhaps of Britain’s sable chief, who bore
-    His conq’ring standard to the Gallic shore.
-    Perhaps of R----[9], gallant knight! who led
-    His country’s warriors to his country’s aid!
-    Perhaps they sung the softest, brightest fire,
-    That ever yet has burst from minstrel’s lyre.
-    Almighty love, whose sigh-inflated sail
-    Wafts, more than bliss, on ev’ry halcyon gale.
-    How warlike Henry[10] joy’d to lay aside
-    The glare of rank, the pageantry of pride:                        50
-    At beauty’s feet, he cast his regal pow’r,
-    And sought for smiles at Rosamond’s lov’d bow’r:
-    Ah! hapless Rosamond, condemn’d to prove
-    The penalty, that waits on lawless love!
-    But now, “the bashful virgin’s sidelong” glance
-    Delights her partner in the mazy dance.
-    And he, who foremost in the lists that day,
-    Bore the rich prize of martial fame away;--
-    Whose crest shone proudest of the youthful band,
-    With joy, receives the fairest lady’s hand.                       60
-    The old look on, and seem again to share
-    In each light movement of the graceful pair;
-    Or talk of deeds long done, of years gone by;
-    Of many an ancient feat of chivalry.
-    While each proud banner, won in glory’s cause,
-    The spoils of conquest, seem’d to wave applause.
-    See, in yon nook, retir’d, the love-sick youth
-    Pays his fond vows of ever-lasting truth;
-    While the soft maiden’s blushing looks reveal
-    A tale so dear, that love alone can feel!                         70
-
-    K----, ere yet the hand of taste around,
-    Display’d the charms with which thy scenes are crown’d,
-    The drooping dryads of thy proud domain,
-    Of cold neglect, proclaim’d the ruin’d reign.
-    Thy falling fabric seem’d in vain to moan,
-    Its glories tarnish’d, and its beauties gone:
-    The weed’s rank verdure overspread the hearth,
-    So late the scene of hospitable mirth;--
-    The moss’s velvet, and the violet’s blue,
-    In wild luxuriance o’er the pavements grew;--                     80
-    Here bloom’d each flowret which the fields impart,
-    The charms of Nature o’er the wrecks of art.
-    Then, then, arose the last of all her race,
-    To join each pow’r, her native house to grace;--
-    Again to raise the beauties of thy pile,
-    With added lustre, make her K---- smile;--
-    Again thy halls, the graceful dance shall bear,
-    And heav’nly music charm the thrilling ear;--
-    Again thy doors shall open to receive
-    The lordly noble, and the poor relieve;--                         90
-    Again shall taste and elegance impart
-    Each varied scene, to charm the captive heart.
-
-    Mayst thou, the lov’d possessor, find repaid,
-    By Friendship’s smile, the works thy hand has made;
-    And mayst thou long live happy, to retrace
-    The faded honours of thy ancient race;
-    May virtue still her fairest flow’rs entwine,
-    To form a wreath to grace the ---- line.
-
-
-
-
-ON FRIENDSHIP.
-
-_Written at Fourteen Years Old._
-
-
-    Hail, star of love, hail, offspring of the skies!
-    That gilds our day, when darken’d storms arise;--
-    ’Tis thou that blunts affliction’s bitter dart,
-    And turns the wound, averted from the heart.
-    In all the changes that await mankind,
-    In all the woes we here are doom’d to find,--
-    Thy hand, amid a world of care and strife,
-    Scatters fresh roses o’er the paths of life.
-    ’Tis not the fawning flatt’rer’s ready praise,
-    Whose word is honey, but whose word betrays.                      10
-    For, ah! while happiness yet gilds each hour,
-    Ere yet adversity’s dark tempests low’r,
-    Like flies in summer, basking in the ray
-    Of prosp’rous sunshine, in thy golden day:
-    Many thy followers, who pollute the name,
-    With sordid lips, of hallow’d Friendship’s flame:
-    But if thy sun, by gath’ring clouds o’erspread,
-    Retract its beams--those followers all are fled,--
-    Not one remains of that late num’rous horde,                      19
-    Who swore thee friendship, round thy genial board.
-    From scenes like this, with stern indignant eye,
-    True Friendship wings her rapid flight:--on high
-    She views the venal slaves of guilt and gold,
-    Purchas’d by int’rest, and by int’rest sold;
-    Whom dark Dishonour, by the Stygian shore,
-    An hideous progeny, to Mammon bore;
-    Hypocrisy receiv’d them at their birth,
-    And, nurs’d by her, they issued into earth.
-
-    Friendship’s soft pow’r, mild as the vernal gale
-    That floats at eve o’er Tempè’s peaceful vale;                    30
-    Holds her vast rule, unbounded by control,
-    O’er the wide realms of the capacious soul;
-    And spurns the limits of the little mind,
-    To narrow thoughts, and mean ideas confin’d.
-    For he, alone, can taste her purest streams--
-    He, he, alone, can feel her warmest beams,
-    Whose breast ennobled, and whose soul refin’d,
-    Display the treasures of an heav’n-taught mind;
-    Enrich’d with every virtue, that can lend
-    Her pow’rful aid, to form a perfect friend;                       40
-    Proud in the pride which dignifies the heart,
-    That scorns deceit, and spurns each baser art;
-    In whose high front, and spirit-rousing eye,
-    Bright honour beams in all her majesty;--
-    Sublimely humble, virtuously bold,
-    Unmov’d by flatt’ry, and unbrib’d by gold.
-    Vot’ries like this, can feel her pow’r sublime,
-    Begun by virtue, and matur’d by time;--
-    Vot’ries like this, once reverenced her laws,
-    And prov’d them worthy of so great a cause.                       50
-
-    Oh! ye twin stars[11], who grace the spangled sphere,
-    When night’s dark shadows o’er the heav’ns appear;
-    And ye, bright patterns of her sacred reign[12],
-    Who bound the tyrant in her silver chain!
-    And thou, O Salem’s king[13], whose heav’n-taught lyre,
-    In sacred strains, Jehovah deign’d t’ inspire;
-    And all ye ancient vot’ries of her name,
-    Be ye the mighty witness of the same!
-
-    Ah! now how changed!--for scarce one ling’ring trace
-    Proves us descendants of our former race;                         60
-    All things degen’rate! e’en the present times
-    Shall seem ennobled, by our future crimes.
-    True Friendship, now, appears but as a dream,--
-    Th’ historian’s subject, or the muse’s theme.
-    Long might we search, and long might search in vain,
-    Him, who, to save his friend a _moment’s pain_,
-    Would set the world and all its charms, at nought;
-    And think, e’en life was far too dearly bought.
-    What venal lips now utter Friendship’s name,
-    And strive to counterfeit her heav’nly flame;                     70
-    How few the souls, o’er whom she deigns to reign;
-    And, ah! how few would bear her silver chain!
-    For her swift wing, like Love’s, disdains all ties,
-    O’er boundless seas and trackless deserts flies;
-    And scorns those barriers, which th’ ignoble prize.
-
-    Oh! thou soft soother of our earthly wo,
-    Grant, from my heart thy precious streams to flow!
-    For what is grief, or pain, or cank’ring care,
-    When ev’ry pang, another seeks to share.
-    And when our night of sorrow glides away,                         80
-    And joy, returning, gilds the opening day;
-    Ah! what avails it, if no friendly heart
-    Bears, in that joy, a sympathizing part:--
-    For, as the laurel, (through the winter’s gloom,
-    When all her leafy rivals cease to bloom,
-    And when each drooping tree, by nature bound,
-    No longer waves its foliage o’er the ground,)
-    Maintains her verdure unimpair’d, and green,
-    And shines conspicuous mid the icy scene:
-    So does true Friendship, in misfortune’s hour,                    90
-    When wint’ry storms o’er life’s gay sunshine low’r;--
-    When false pretenders, base, and servile band,
-    Chill at the touch of fortune’s alter’d wand;
-    So does she cheer the solitary scene,
-    Glows ever-warm, and blossoms ever-green.
-
-
-
-
-IRREGULAR LINES.
-
-_Written at Fifteen Years Old._
-
-
-    There’s not a heart, whose inward shrine
-    Reflects one throb that rouses mine!
-    That when young Pleasure rises high,
-      Can give the smile to Friendship dear;
-    When Sorrow prompts the speaking sigh,
-      Can waft its answer,--on the tear.
-    And yet the world can freely share,
-    In boist’rous mirth, in vulgar care:--
-    Albeit it marvels, when the soul
-    Escapes its tinsell’d, vain control,                              10
-      To joy, or weep alone.
-    For, ah! how few, alas! can find
-    _One_ dear, _one_ sympathizing mind,
-    In un’son with their own.
-
-    I’ve stood in crowds, where all was gay,
-    Where Pleasure held her roseate sway;
-    And there, mid hundreds met to show’r
-    Fresh flowrets o’er the laughing hour;
-    I’ve stood, and felt that lonely feel,
-    As keen, as cold, as piercing steel,                              20
-    Which whispers,--What to thee, this crowd?
-    The vulgar great, the reckless proud?--
-    On whose unvaried, smiling face,
-    Not one congenial thought you trace.
-    There, nought but pleasure seems to shine,
-      Like o’er the snow, the sun of spring,
-    There ev’ry heart seems glad;--but thine
-      Is cold, and sear’d, and withering.
-    Oh, yes! unknowing, and unknown,
-    Mid circling throngs--thou art alone!                             30
-    But why, oh, why! should I complain?
-    Before me life extends her plain,
-    Which Hope, and Fancy lend their pow’rs,
-    To gild with gold, or deck with flow’rs.
-    What! though mid all the crowds of state,
-    My wayward heart is desolate;
-    Yet oft, I’ve felt the spirit’s play,
-    That wafts from earth the soul away;
-    When the calm eye, or musing ear,
-    Gives nought of life, or motion near;                             40
-    To gaze upon the heav’ns, so still, so fair,
-    (Oh, who can feel a grief, while gazing there?)
-    To mark, when night extends her sable reign,
-    Th’ unnumber’d worlds of that ethereal plain,
-    Till snatch’d from earth, the soul appears to spring
-    To those high realms, on Rapture’s hallow’d wing.
-
-    To change the view!--To note the spreading scene,
-    The mountain’s grandeur, or the valley’s green;
-    Or mark the murm’ring riv’let’s wavy blue
-    Catch, from the skies, their own harmonious hue;                  50
-    And (as the moonlight o’er the water throws,
-    The light that, like the virgin, trembling glows,)
-    To hear, in thought, th’ aërial Sylphids sweep
-    Their wings of sapphire o’er the beaming deep:
-    While the old oak-tree, blasted by the storm,
-    Spreads o’er the waves its venerable form;
-    And the hoarse breeze, that, whisp’ring, rushes near,
-    Gives wild, unearthly music to the ear,
-    Till Fancy shews the Druids’ ancient train,
-    Strike their bold harps, and slowly sweep the plain.
-    Or, if the roaring tempest courts the sight;--                    61
-    For scene or dread, or gentle, can delight
-    The lofty soul;--how sweet, on some sear’d rock,
-    To mark the warring element’s rough shock;
-    To smile unmov’d, while bursting thunders roll,
-    And the red flames of lightning flash the pole;
-    And calm, uninjur’d, mid the blazing storm,
-    Like some proud tow’r, to rear the godlike form.
-    Then, while the conflict fierce he joys to scan,
-    Man well can feel the majesty of man.                             70
-    Yet this, when all the spirits beam,
-      In loveliest, loftiest, holiest mood,
-    The world’s vain, heartless vot’ries deem,
-      The cheerless gloom of solitude.
-    What! is it Solitude to hold
-      Rich commune with the soul’s high pow’r?
-    To mark its various buds unfold,
-      The bloom, the beauty of the flow’r?
-    What! is it Solitude to trace,
-    The hand of heav’n in Nature’s face?                              80
-      ’Tis then the rising breast can throw
-    Its deathless essence, far from aught
-      That savours of the world below;
-    And, with the beings rear’d by thought,
-      Can oft converse in Fancy’s shrine,
-    Until it feels an heav’n-born ray,
-    Around in mystic beamings play,
-      And mix a something half-divine.
-    Oh! ’tis not Solitude!--’tis more
-      Than life--than earth--than all can give;                       90
-    ’Tis on the wings of heav’n to soar--
-      ’Tis in the land of bliss to live.
-
-
-
-
-STANZAS TO LYRA.
-
-_Written at Fifteen Years Old._
-
-
-    The hour for love, in all its bliss,
-      In all its purity of truth,
-    Is, when time prints his earliest kiss
-      Upon the open brow of youth;--
-
-    When all the heart is on the sigh,
-      That love has never heav’d before;
-    When the soft language of the eye
-      Tells all the rising bosom’s core.
-
-    Yes, yes, my Lyra, love like mine,
-      Form’d in the orient dawn of day,                               10
-    That spark of ecstasy divine,
-      Time never, never can decay.
-
-    Yes, I may rove from flow’r to flow’r,
-      Yes, I may sip the roseate dew,
-    But still, believe me, ev’ry hour,
-      The heart will turn to love, and you!
-
-    Whene’er you mark man’s darken’d hue,--
-      Whene’er you hear him swear to prove,
-    For ever, to your beauties, true,
-      Believe him not!--he cannot love!                               20
-
-    But, when yon view the glance of shame,
-      But, when you catch the falt’ring tone
-    Of youth, first warm’d to passion’s flame,
-      Oh! that is love,--and love alone!
-
-
-
-
-GERALDINE;
-
-OR,
-
-_THE FATAL BOON_.
-
-A ROMANTIC TALE.
-
-_Written at Fourteen._
-
-
-
-
-GERALDINE.
-
-PART I.
-
-
-    The morning dawn’d serenely gay;
-    The feather’d warblers hail’d the day;
-    The sun it shone forth bright and fair;
-    And vernal fragrance wooed the air.
-
-    O’er the brown hill and verdant green,
-    A thousand joyous forms were seen;
-    All Nature’s works were blithe and gay,--
-    For this was Osmond’s nuptial day.
-
-    High on a rock, whose rugged brow
-    Frown’d sternly o’er the vales below,                             10
-    And seem’d upon their charms to low’r,
-    Arose young Osmond’s stately tow’r.
-
-    Now up the craggy steep ascends
-    A train of vassals, and of friends;
-    Here serf in festive garb array’d,
-    Here hoary sire, here matron staid,
-    Here plumed lord, and blushing maid,
-    Sweep on in long, long cavalcade.
-
-    See, where his foaming courser’s speed
-    High Osmond reins by Emma’s steed;                                20
-    See, how his melting eyes impart
-    The love-sick tale that warms his heart;
-    The while her blushing looks reveal
-    The joy her eyes would fain conceal.
-
-    Each winning charm, each female grace,
-    Deck’d that soft virgin’s angel face;
-    While Cupid, thron’d in beauty warm,
-    Shone on her lover’s manly form:
-    Yet there, although he striv’d to hide,
-    You trac’d a wayward, haughty pride,                              30
-    And a fierce something went and came,
-    In his dark eye-ball’s rapid flame.
-
-    Lo! as they wind along the green,
-    Sudden a female form is seen,
-    A veil, with thickest sable dy’d,
-    Around her face was closely tied;
-    At Emma’s feet her form she flung,
-    And thus her hollow accents rung:--
-
-    “O lady fair, a boon I ask,
-    “Trust me, ’tis an easy task;                                     40
-    “No costly robe, no blazing ore,
-    “No gem from India’s pamper’d shore,
-    “I wish to have!--O lady fair,
-    “Give me one lock of thy bright hair!”
-    ‘A golden ringlet from my bride,’
-    In accents gay, young Osmond cried;
-    ‘In truth, it is a strange request,
-    ‘Yet, as she has so warmly prest,
-    ‘Mine Emma, grant the rich bequest.’
-
-    Upon the stranger, Emma’s eyes                                    50
-    Gaz’d for awhile in soft surprise,
-    While o’er her damask cheek arose
-    The brightness of the morning rose.
-
-    One golden lock, that from the braid
-    That bound her graceful curls had stray’d,
-    And had luxuriously fell
-    Adown her bosom’s rising swell,
-    Was from its snowy mansion riv’n,
-    And to the suppliant stranger giv’n.
-
-    Oh! then lord Osmond, could’st thou view                          60
-    The features ’neath that sable hue;
-    Could’st thou the withering sternness trace,
-    That darken’d o’er that once-lov’d face;
-    Sooner would’st thou, with rapture part,
-    From vital stream that warms thy heart,
-    Than to that shrouded female’s hold
-    Consign the curl of wavy gold.
-
-    Soon as the stranger seiz’d the prize,
-    Swift as the hunted roebuck flies,
-    Away, away, across the mead,                                      70
-    Scour her feet with fairy speed.
-    Leave we awhile the blithsome throng,
-    That thickly, gaily sweep along,
-    And to that stranger turn our song.
-
-    Deep in a vale’s sequester’d shade,
-    Blossom’d a young and lovely maid,
-    Enchanting Geraldine! To thee,
-    Suppliant nobles bent the knee,
-    For never human eye might trace
-    A finer form, or fairer face.                                     80
-    But every ardent suit she flies,
-    And casts on all averted eyes,
-    ’Till Osmond came!--What female soul
-    Could e’er withstand his soft control,
-    Could see him weep, could hear him sigh,
-    And mark the language of that eye,
-    And still unthaw’d, unmov’d remain?--
-    Alas! for _her_, th’ attempt was vain!
-
-    Long time the pair enamour’d, prove
-    The blissful joys of mutual love,                                 90
-    ’Till Osmond cool’d!--On weak pretence,
-    He, feigning matter of offence,
-    Deserted her, whose faithful heart
-    Could ne’er from Osmond’s image part.
-    What anguish’d grief, what love by turns,
-    In Geraldine’s rack’d bosom burns,--
-    Sighs, tears, and groans, consum’d the day!
-    Sighs, tears, and groans, wore night away!
-    At length the fatal news is brought,
-    “Lord Osmond has in spousals sought                              100
-    “The high-born Emma!”--Oh, what pain
-    Thrill’d then across her madd’ning brain,
-    ’Till fondness fled, and direful rage,
-    And vengeance stern, her thoughts engage.
-    But lo! her beldam nurse appears,
-    Well worn in vice, and bow’d with years,
-    A potent witch! whose dreadful spell
-    Had pow’r to bind the fiends of hell.
-
-    To her the injur’d beauty flies,
-    Her soul fierce flashing in her eyes,                            110
-    And weeping tells her, how the youth
-    Had broke his vows of love and truth.
-    “What though, alas!” the fair one cried,
-    “I may not, cannot be his bride,
-    “Revenge is mine! may death and wo--
-    “Whom would I curse?--my Osmond!--no!
-    “_Him_, Dira, _him_, though faithless, spare,--
-    “Turn all thy vengeance on the fair,
-    “Who’s robb’d me of his valued heart,
-    “Stab, stab her soul with poison’s dart,--                       120
-    “Against _her_, all thy charms employ,
-    “Her life, her soul, her all destroy!”
-    She ceas’d; but still her eye-ball’s glare
-    Shew’d vengeance fierce and fix’d was there,
-    And still that brow declares too well,
-    What human tongue can feebly tell.
-
-    Her Dira soothes, and hastes t’ unfold
-    The secrets of a heart grown old
-    In vice,--whose very name would thrill
-    And damp the soul with shudd’ring chill,                         130
-    And to her awe-struck list’ner tells
-    Her hellish charms, and demon spells;
-    Proceeds the dreadful means to shew,
-    To blight young Emma’s hopes with wo.
-
-    One thing alone would still remain,
-    And Geraldine must that obtain,
-    To aid their plans,--from Emma fair,
-    On nuptial day, a lock of hair.
-
-    Her well-known features now to hide,
-    _A veil, in thickest sable dy’d,_                                140
-    _Around her lovely face was tied_.
-    And she it was, upon that day,
-    Who met the lovers in their way,
-    And gain’d the prize!--for, in her hold
-    Bright beams the wavy lock of gold.
-
-    Mean time to Osmond’s lofty halls,
-    The God of Love and Pleasure calls.
-    Hark, hark, loud clamours rend the air,
-    “Long live our Lord and Emma fair!”
-    Hark, hark, the minstrels tune their lays,                       150
-    In one glad song of joy and praise;
-    And love and wit combine their pow’r,
-    To gild with bliss each halcyon hour;
-    And all around is blithe and gay,--
-    For this is Osmond’s nuptial day!
-
-
-END OF PART I.
-
-
-
-
-GERALDINE;
-
-OR,
-
-_THE FATAL BOON_.
-
-
-PART II.
-
-
-
-
-GERALDINE.
-
-PART II.
-
-
-    ’Twas day! and all was bright and fair!--
-    Tis night!--and thunders rend the air;--
-    The lightning’s blaze illumes the shore;--
-    In driving hail, the torrents pour.
-    Oh! ’tis a night, whose dreadful shade
-    Seem’d but for hell’s dark demons made,
-    And Fancy’s eye might, in the storm,
-    Trace many a wild mysterious form.
-
-    Upon an heath, unmov’d by all,
-    That human nature can appal,                                      10
-    Dark Dira stood!--and, by her side,
-    Buoy’d up by vengeful woman’s pride,
-    Like some fair angel’s slender form,
-    Near the dire demon of the storm,
-    The lightning’s blaze, with lurid glare,
-    Shew’d Geraldine pale, standing there.
-    And can no fear, can no remorse,
-    Stop, stop thee, from thy dreadful course?--
-    Oh! think, in what a gulph of crime,
-    Thou sink’st thy soul to endless time!                            20
-    Oh, think! oh, pause! oh, haste to fly
-    From such a gulph of misery!
-    On every feature of her face,
-    Nought but one fix’d resolve you’d trace,
-    And vain, alas! is human skill,
-    When woman once is bent on ill.
-
-    This wither’d heath, the fiends are wont,
-    With annual festival, to haunt;
-    And quaff, from many a murderer’s skull,
-    Bowls with blood-streams bubbling full!                           30
-    And where has been their blasting tread,
-    There never shrub can lift its head--
-    There never fall the dews of night--
-    There never beams the solar light!
-
-    On Dira’s magic-shielded head
-    Burst, with fierce blaze, the lightnings red;
-    But, ere they singed one hair, they fell,
-    And own’d the power of her spell.
-    Convuls’d her looks,--her eye-balls glare,--
-    Her elfin locks stream to the air,--                              40
-    Arms, neck, and breast expos’d and bare,
-    As if the wild wind’s rage to dare.
-    While nature trembled at the sin,
-    They now th’ infernal rites begin.
-
-    Within her lean and bony hand,
-    Dark Dira held a mystic wand;
-    Thrice, with that wand, she struck the ground,
-    And mutter’d many a mystic sound:
-    Then turning to the paly fair,
-    Who shudder’d, half-repentant, there,                             50
-    Full on her cold and trembling hand,
-    She struck the hell-devoted wand;
-    And, strange to say, one drop of blood
-    (As if to mar its whiteness) stood
-    On that fair hand, then downwards bore,
-    And fell, and was perceived no more;
-    But where it dropp’d, there instant came,
-    From the seer earth, a dark-blue flame;--
-    When on that flame the sorceress glanc’d,
-    Round, and round, and round she danc’d,                           60
-    With action wild, and gesture dread,
-    This rhime uncouth she sung or said:--
-     “Mighty child of darkness, hear!
-        “Queen of the sable sons of hell,
-      “Hecate, now incline thy ear,
-        “Listen to thy Dira’s spell!
-      “And ye dark train,
-    “That sport at midnight o’er th’ infernal plain,
-      “To my charms, now witness bear,
-      “Charms to all your vot’ries dear.                              70
-      “Lo! into these flames I fling
-      “Basilisk’s eye, and scorpion’s sting,
-        “And the bat’s wing!
-      “Fire, subservient to my will,
-      “Burn fiercer, hotter, faster still!
-        “To aid my charm,
-    “Lo! in thy flames, I cast a murderer’s arm.
-
-      “Toad, once tenant of the tomb,
-        “Beetle black, and infant’s thigh,
-      “Screech owl’s egg, and raven’s plume,                          80
-      “Mad dog’s foam, and viper’s skin,
-        “Mandrake’s brain, and black cat’s eye,
-      “I throw thy mystic flames within.
-      “Fire, subservient to my will,
-      “Burn fiercer, hotter, faster still!
-    “Lo! again to aid my vow,
-    “Hemlock, and the cypress bough,
-    “Night-shade, yew, and all that bloom
-    “O’er the charnel, or the tomb;
-    “Each potent herb, each magic thing,                              90
-    “To complete my spells, I bring!”
-
-    She ceas’d;--and now, with vivid rays,
-    Fiercely tow’rs th’ infernal blaze;
-    The traveller, who, on that black night,
-    Beheld from far, the demon light,
-    Paus’d for awhile!--his pray’rs he said,
-    Then spurr’d his steed in wond’ring dread;
-    The owl, who caught the distant ray,
-    Bore back his pinions in dismay;
-    The dog, who saw the blaze afar,                                 100
-    That seem’d to burst like meteor star,
-    In horror stood!--to bark, and tried,
-    But found his trembling tongue was tied.
-
-    Now as high the hell-flames whirl,
-    In Dira throws the golden curl;
-    Round, and round again she flings,
-    In hellish dance, and thus she sings:--
-    “Thou who rul’st the realms below,
-    “Receive the grateful sacrifice,
-    “Around thy fire-flames pacing thrice,                           110
-    “Thy servant offers now!
-      “Cut away,
-      “On nuptial day,
-    “Lo! into these flames, I throw
-    “Ringlet of a deadly foe;
-    “And as it now is eat by flame,
-    “So may the head from whence it came,--
-    “So may the heart,--so may the frame,
-      “Of that detested enemy,
-    “Wither, and consume, and burn,                                  120
-    “Decay like visions of the morn,
-      “In bitt’rest pangs of agony!”
-
-    Turn we again to hall and bow’r,
-    Where Hymen gilds each halcyon hour;--
-    To Osmond, and his jovial train
-    Of lordly friends, turn we again!
-    Like seamen, feasting safe on shore,
-    Little reck’d they of the tempest’s roar:--
-    Hark! the minstrels tune their lyre,
-    And sing of love’s celestial fire,                               130
-    In melting music’s soothing measures,
-    Tell its more than earthly pleasures!
-    While Osmond’s eyes, with passion streaming,
-    Are on his lovely Emma beaming!
-    Hark! the minstrels change their theme,
-    A nobler fire illumes their dream!
-    Of Osmond’s deeds, of Osmond’s might,
-    Bulwark of the field of fight!
-    How, mid heaps of slaughter’d foes,
-    High, his laurell’d crest arose;                                 140
-    How, on Gallia’s hostile shore,
-    Mid many a stream of crimson gore,
-    His arm----Ah! whence that piercing cry!
-    What means that scream of agony?
-    Turn, Osmond, turn thine orbs of pride,
-    Behold thy pallid, fainting bride!
-    She gasps for breath,--she strives to speak,--
-    In vain her voice would silence break:
-    Her locks upstand, her eye-balls glare,
-    Her trembling form convulsions tear.                             150
-    ‘Assistance,--help!’ young Osmond cries;
-    ‘Help! or my angel Emma, dies.’
-    But vain was help!--he scarce had said,
-    Ere her pure soul had ever fled;
-    And she, whose sight could rapture bring,
-    Was now pale, cold, and withering!
-    In madd’ning grief, and dark despair,
-    Lord Osmond gaz’d, as rooted there;
-    So still, unheeding all, he stood,--
-    It seem’d the calm of fortitude!                                 160
-    But, sudden starting from his trance,
-    He cast on her one piercing glance;
-    Then threw himself upon her breast,
-    And her unconscious lips he prest;
-    And, torn by frenzy and dismay,
-    Clasp’d in his arms the lifeless clay,
-    And mourn’d the hopes of many a day,--
-    In one dire moment snatch’d away!
-    But lo! around the banner’d hall,
-    A sudden gloom appear’d to fall,                                 170
-    The glimmering lamps burn dark and blue,
-    And tinge the walls with ghostly hue;
-    And far more loud the tempests roar
-    And rage against the sounding shore.
-    Lo! what a forked flash is there,
-    Hark! what a peal bursts through the air;
-    The frighted earth appears to quake,
-    The lofty tow’rs in terror shake;
-    And Osmond’s feasters, here and there,
-    Disperse in wild and wondering fear.                             180
-    Then, where the madd’ning bridegroom lay,
-    A dark-blue flame was seen to play,
-    And, like a sylph, in lightning-storm,
-    Amid it rose a female form!
-    But on her pale, majestic face,
-    A mix’d expression you might trace,
-    Of pride, of rage, triumphant joy;--
-    A something seeking to destroy.
-    One step to Osmond first she made,
-    And thus with deep low tone she said:--                          190
-    “Osmond, behold! arise! arise!
-    “On me, once more, direct thine eyes;
-    “She, whom with treach’ry’s perjur’d part,
-    “Thou left’st to cure a broken heart,
-    “Has liv’d to blast, base traitor, know,
-    “Thy youth with bitterest pangs of wo.
-    “Gaze on--weep on--o’er that cold fair,
-    “Who lies, bereft of being, there;
-    “And know, if pleasure it may be,
-    “_That glorious work_ was done by me!”                           200
-    She spoke;--and, as she mov’d away,
-    Laugh’d, like a demon o’er his prey.
-
-    Fierce flash’d in Osmond’s eyes the fire
-    Of vengeful rage, of deepest ire.
-    Sprang from his place, his dirk he drew,
-    And swift on Geraldine he flew;
-    One single moment scarce was o’er,
-    Ere that keen dirk was red with gore.
-    She fell!--but, haughty e’en in death,
-    No groan, no sigh, consum’d her breath.                          210
-    But, though she sunk upon that ground,
-    Never again her corpse was found:
-    And, strange to say, I’ve heard the tale,
-    That, borne upon the passing gale,
-    Unearthly screams and voices ran,
-    And sounds--far from the sounds of man!
-
-    When Osmond had that death-blow giv’n,
-    His eyes, his hands, uprais’d to heav’n,
-    (To _Emma_ ever true,) he cried,
-    ‘I come!--receive me, Oh! my bride!’                             220
-    Then plung’d his dirk into his side,
-    Gasp’d out his Emma’s name,--and died!
-
-
-
-
-IMPROMPTU
-
-ON SEEING A TEAR ON THE CHEEK OF A YOUNG LADY AT THE RECITAL OF A TALE
-OF WOE.
-
-_Written at Fourteen._
-
-
-    Precious drop of heav’nly feeling,
-      Purer than the driven snows,
-    Down the cheek of beauty stealing,
-    At the tale of Mira’s woes.
-
-    Is that beamy radiance melting?
-      Does that eye less bright appear?
-    Love in Pity’s bosom sheltering,
-      Wafts his arrows on a tear!
-
-
-
-
-Translations from Horace.
-
-
-
-
-Translations from Horace[14].
-
-ODE XV. BOOK I.
-
-_Written at Thirteen._
-
-
-    When o’er the seas the treach’rous shepherd bore
-    His lovely hostess, to the Dardan shore;
-    Lull’d was each wave, and hush’d each stormy breeze,
-    By Nereus soften’d to ingrateful ease;
-    That the dire fate to Priam’s race they bring,
-    Of mighty woes, the pitying god may sing.
-
-    “Ah! hapless Paris, in an evil day,
-    “Thou bear’st thy burthen from her home away.
-    “To break thy guilty ties, the Greeks conspire,
-    “And wrap thy father’s ancient realms in fire.                    10
-    “What labour trickles from each warlike face,
-    “Alas! what carnage dyes the Dardan race;
-    “Pallas prepares e’en now her flying car,
-    “The helm, the ægis, and desire of war!
-    “By guardian Venus’ soft assistance bold,
-    “In vain, you comb your flowing locks of gold;
-    “In vain, your finger sweeps th’ unwarlike string,
-    “And tender measures, loved by females, sing;
-    “In vain, you fly the Cretan lance; in vain,
-    “From Ajax swift, you scour your native plain;                    20
-    “Though harmless through the airy tide be sped
-    “The dart, so hateful to the nuptial bed,
-    “Yet still, though late, th’ adult’rous ringlets must
-    “Be steep’d in blood, and scatter’d in the dust.
-    “See stern Ulysses, terror of thy race;
-    “And Pylian Nestor’s venerable grace;
-    “Teucer, and Sthenelus, renown’d in war,
-    “Or skill’d to guide the coursers and the car.
-    “Ah! hapless Paris, dost thou also see,
-    “Where godlike Merion scours the plain for thee;                  30
-    “Where fierce Tydides, greater than his sire,
-    “Searches for thee, and burns with vengeful ire?
-    “As when some stag perceives, with fearful eyes,
-    “Across the vale the tawny wolf, and flies;
-    “So shalt thou fly! forgetful of thy fame;--
-    “Not thus thou promised to the Spartan dame.
-    “Achilles’ angry fleet may bring delay,
-    “But not less sure th’ inevitable day;
-    “The fate-allotted time will soon expire,
-    “And Troy shall sink beneath the Grecian fire.”                   40
-
-
-
-
-ODE XVI. BOOK II.
-
-_Written at Fourteen._
-
-
-    When shipwreckt, mid the wide Ægean seas,
-    The wearied sailor prays to heav’n for ease;
-    When the dark clouds o’er Cynthia’s splendour low’r,
-    And glimmering stars refuse to lend their pow’r;
-    For ease, for ease, the warlike Thracian cries,
-    In vain, for ease, the quiver’d Parthian sighs:
-    That blessing, Grosphus, never can be sold
-    For blushing purple, or for blazing gold.
-    For neither wealth, nor regal power control
-    The wretched tumults of the madd’ning soul.                       10
-    And care, alas! will pour her baleful crowd
-    Around the vaulted mansions of the proud.
-    Happy the man, whose humble board is spread
-    With the coarse viands that his fathers fed.
-    Nor trembling Fear, nor Av’rice, sordid guest!
-    Can e’er disturb his lightly-peaceful rest.
-    Why do we waste, in things that ne’er may be,
-    The flying hours of short mortality?
-    Fools that we are!--Oh, wherefore do we run
-    To climates mellow’d by another sun?                              20
-    When roves the exile from his native sky,
-    Say!--can he ever hope himself to fly?
-
-    Ah, no!--for care is swifter than the hind,--
-    For care is swifter than the eastern wind.
-
-    How blest that soul, which, moderately gay,
-    Unheeds the morrow, and enjoys to-day;--
-    Sweetens with smiles, the bitterness of strife,
-    For perfect bliss can ne’er be found in life!
-    Achilles fell, in life’s primæval day;
-    The hand of time, Tithonus wore away.                             30
-    And that long life, by Fate denied to thee,
-    Perhaps, indulgent, she may give to me.
-
-    A hundred herds adorn thy fertile fields,
-    For thee, Sicilia, hundred oxen yields;
-    For thee, the courser eager snuffs the plain,
-    Bows his proud neck, and seems to court the rein;
-    For thee, with long, and loosely-sweeping flow,
-    The Lybian dye reveals its purple glow.
-    To me, propitious Fate, with kindly hand,
-    Has giv’n some portion of paternal land,                          40
-    And deign’d the lays of Horace to inspire,
-    With one bright beam of ancient Graia’s fire;
-    And whilst in talent, and in virtue proud,
-    To scorn the malice of the vulgar crowd.
-
-
-
-
-Translation
-
-OF THE FIRST CHORUS
-
-IN THE
-
-ŒDIPUS TYRRANNUS OF SOPHOCLES.
-
-_Written at Fourteen._
-
-
-STROPHE.
-
-    Oh! sweet-tongued oracle of Phœbus, say,
-      To aid th’ illustrious Thebans’ ancient shore,
-    Dost thou from golden Delphos bend thy way,
-      Where thousand altars daily incense pour?
-    God, we invoke thee by thy three-fold name,
-      Rack’d with suspence, and palpitating fear,
-    Whate’er thou now, or henceforth shalt proclaim,
-      We list in silence, and with reverence hear.
-        Child of Hope, immortal Fame,
-          Deign the dark decree to prove;                             10
-        Thy pow’r omnipotent we claim,
-          Pallas! progeny of Jove!
-
-
-ANTISTROPHE.
-
-      To thee, we raise our suppliant hands,
-        Diana, queen of forests cold,
-      To where the stately forum stands,
-        Seated on thy throne of gold.
-      God of the distant-wounding bow,
-      Apollo, hear, avert our wo.
-      If e’er before ye gave us aid,
-      When burthen’d with the monster-maid,                           20
-      Averters of Misfortune’s band,
-      Oh! now assist our suff’ring land.
-
-    Alas! to you, we suppliant call,
-    And, crush’d with ills unnumber’d, fall,
-    Whilst all our people pine away with grief,
-    And vain each plan to bring the wish’d relief;
-    Our corn is wasted in the barren earth,
-    Our women sink beneath th’ untimely birth;
-    Corpse upon corpse promiscuously expire,
-      Flocking to gloomy Pluto’s dreary reign,                        30
-    As birds, who, swifter than th’ unwearied fire,
-      Fall in vast numbers o’er the azure main.
-    Unnumber’d deaths, alas! exhaust our land--
-    Unhonour’d corpses load the burning strand.
-    Mothers and wives, thy sacred altars round,
-    Emit one sad, one darkly-mournful sound;
-    Perpetual Pæans lengthen on the gale,
-    And dismal sighs and mournful groans prevail.
-    Oh! haste then, golden Pallas, heav’nly maid,
-    Deign, in all thy might to aid,                                   40
-    And cause to fly this dreadful god,
-    Who smites us with his baleful rod;
-    And, sword and buckler laid aside,
-    Destroys us with o’erwhelming tide;
-    Drive him, banish’d, from our home,
-    Where th’ unbounded ocean’s foam--
-    Or where th’ Ægean waters roar
-    Around the barb’rous Thracian’s shore.
-    What night has spar’d awhile!--the day
-    Has unrelenting swept away.                                       50
-    Oh, potent Jove! thy thunders bare,
-    Oh, bid thy lightnings pierce the air,
-    And wrap beneath the blazing storm,
-    The murd’rous fury’s raging form.
-    Oh, King of Lycia! now thy darts employ,
-    Beneath thy arms this god destroy.
-    Those weapons, oh, Diana? pour,
-    With which thou hunt’st the Lycian boar.
-    And thou, who lov’st the nymphs to lead,
-    With golden mitre round thy head,                                 60
-    Guardian God of Theban shore,
-    Purple Bacchus, we implore,
-    Oh, rear thy blazing brand on high,
-    Against this monster of the sky,
-    And banish, madd’ning with the pain,
-    The god, most hated of the heav’nly train.
-
-
-
-
-PARNASSUS[15];
-
-A VISION.
-
-_Written at Fourteen Years and a Half._
-
-
-    Loves not thy soul, when sated with the crowd,
-    And all the trifles of the great and proud;--
-    Loves not thy soul, its wearied pow’rs to bless,
-    With the rich charms of pensive loneliness?--
-    To turn thine eye, in mem’ry’s fond survey,
-    To scenes and pleasures faded long away;
-    Till they fall on thee, like spring’s grateful rain,
-    And, in idea, thou liv’st them o’er again?
-    Or, if bright Hope extends her magic wand,
-    To the dark future’s cloud-encircled land;                        10
-    Dost thou not feel a secret wish to view
-    Th’ entangled vale, thou hast to wander through?
-    While Fancy loves to deck the scene with flow’rs,
-    Gather’d from Glory’s fields, or Pleasure’s roseate bow’rs;
-    Till, perhaps, some passing peasant’s laughter’s roll,
-    Breaks the soft spell that binds thy wand’ring soul.
-    Yes, thou hast felt it, at that grateful hour,
-    When eve excites the Muse’s heav’nly pow’r,--
-    When all is calm!--when nothing rude is near,
-    To bound the pensive eye, or wound the ear!                       20
-    When Zephyr, wakened by paternal spring,
-    Rimples the waters with his roseate wing;
-    And, like a lover, wooes them with a sigh,
-    Sweet, but soon over, as he wanders by.
-
-    ’Twas such an eve as this, I lately stood
-    On the green banks that shade Brent’s humble flood,
-    And mus’d o’er pleasures past, o’er scenes to be,
-    The cheering lights of dim futurity;
-    Till softly o’er my mind began to creep
-    Th’ unearthly calm of visionary sleep.                            30
-
-    Methought, a spacious plain before me lay,
-    Ting’d with that light which gilds the dawn of day;
-    Beauteous in every charm that can impart
-    Aught to delight, or captivate the heart:
-    Like those bright realms[16], replete with ev’ry joy,
-    That Venus rear’d to please her fav’rite boy.
-    Far up the wide expanse, was clearly seen,
-    A mountain cover’d with eternal green:
-    There, wreath’d in flow’rs of heav’n’s own splendid hue,
-    This hallow’d word blaz’d on the distant view,                    40
-    “PARNASSUS!”----
-
-    By the fair bow’rs, and streams, that fill’d this plain,
-    Were wide-dispers’d the ancient bardic train:--
-    There (by a roaring cat’ract’s sweeping force,
-    That from Parnassus took its turbid course)
-    Tow’rd Homer’s form! in majesty sublime,
-    The living monument, of lasting time;
-    And near to him, beneath a spreading tree,
-    Stood thy wild Sire[17], imperial Tragedy!
-    And farther on, with eye, and stroke of fire,
-    High Pindar woke the transports of his lyre;                      50
-    While by a river, fann’d with Zephyr’s breeze,
-    Lay the mild shade of melting Sophocles;
-    There, many a form, in awful splendour bright,
-    Caught the wild, wondering raptures of my sight:--
-    Maro and Horace, godlike sons of Fame,
-    And am’rous Ovid’s ever-pleasing name;
-    While, through the air, that hush’d itself to hear,
-    Tibullus’ sweetness thrill’d the list’ning ear;
-    And mighty Lucan, with illustrious strain,
-    Told the dread scenes of fam’d Pharsalia’s plain:                 60
-    With gather’d arms, curl’d lip, and eye severe,
-    Stood Juvenal--alone, calm, stern, austere.
-
-    Methought the scene was changed!--a wider plain,
-    Spread with a gaudy, but a trifling train,
-    Before me lay!----No more could I behold
-    The hallow’d mountain, or its fields of gold;
-    Till, as I strain’d mine eye, I view’d afar,
-    Its shrouded beams, like Herschel’s distant star.
-    Again I turn’d my eye upon the band,
-    Who pour’d their numbers o’er this humbler land;                  70
-    These were, I soon perceiv’d, the bards who smile,
-    In this fair era, o’er Britannia’s isle.
-    The first, was one, whom many-tongued Renown
-    Has deem’d the brightest gem that decks the Muse’s crown.
-
-    Apart from all he stood!--his burning eye
-    He strove to turn in rapture to the sky.
-    Upon his lyre he leant: and, as he sung,
-    His curling ringlets o’er his shoulders hung;
-    In ev’ry look the trifler gave, he sought
-    To shew how wisely, and how deep he thought;                      80
-    And to his flowing garb, and studied pace,
-    He strove, but strove in vain, to give a grace.
-    His first, his chiefest aim, his dearest pride,
-    To write!--how different from the world beside;
-    For this he rack’d his brain!--it would not do!
-    For every effort, more degen’rate grew.
-    At length he found a method to succeed,
-    ’Twas this!--to celebrate each impious deed,
-    To _Vice_ the charms of _Virtue_ to impart,
-    To thrill the senses!--but corrupt the heart!                     90
-    While I gaz’d on this bard!--methought a sound,
-    Wild, sweet, but awful, swell’d along the ground;
-    I turn’d mine eye! and, by a mould’ring tow’r,
-    Espied a form of such high grace and pow’r,--
-    It seem’d as if Apollo from the skies
-    Had rov’d, and now had met my wond’ring eyes.
-    It was that bard, whose justly-lasting fame,
-    Illustrious Caledon is proud to claim!--
-    It was that bard, whose wild majestic lay,
-    The floods of time shall never sweep away!                       100
-    Fast by his side, soul-moving C----l stood--
-    C----l, the wise, the noble, and the good.
-    These two were in the open paths that led
-    To green Parnassus’ ever-radiant head.
-    Not far from them, in green, and vig’rous age,
-    Reclin’d at ease a venerable sage;
-    Like some calm stream his peaceful numbers flow,
-    Serenely soft, dispassionately slow;
-    Not his the genius that can soar sublime,
-    On wings of Glory, o’er the wrecks of time:                      110
-    Yet Fame’s fair pages shall record him long,
-    No humble vot’ry at the shrine of song.
-    Beneath the luxuries of a neighb’ring bow’r,
-    I view’d the figure of fantastic M----;
-    Around the poet’s myrtle-wreathed head,
-    A train of gaudy insects hovered;
-    Sudden he rises! and with haste pursues
-    The splendid fly, that boasts the richest hues;
-    And long upheld the chace! until it flew                         119
-    Within his grasp!--and then he straight withdrew.
-    It griev’d me to behold so vast a mind,
-    Ideas so grand, and talents so refin’d,
-    Desert Parnassus, to pursue a fly,
-    And change, for trifles, Immortality!
-
-    Two well-known sons of rapture-raising song,
-    Now slowly swept the radiant fields along.
-    Heroic S----, whose Parnassian lays
-    Richly deserve Britannia’s laureate bays.
-    With this great vot’ry of Apollo’s name,
-    The pensive shade of hallow’d R---- came;                        130
-    Each melting line, that this soft poet sung,
-    Flow’d from the heart, its richness to the tongue;
-    He, who has gain’d a fame for aye to last,
-    By singing of the Pleasures that are past.
-    While I did gaze on them, across the plain,
-    Like summer vapours, swept a jovial train,
-    Issuing from these, I caught th’ unmeaning note
-    Of senseless C----’s empty numbers float;
-    W---- was there, who follow’d Homer’s rule,
-    In every line, to study Nature’s school;                         140
-    For as his heroes drive the waggon, so
-    Rustic and rude his humble verses flow.
-
-    Far to the hinder side, a mountain spread,
-    With shadowy clouds impervious, o’er its head,
-    Hiding whate’er beneath the veil might be,
-    With the dark mantle of futurity.
-    In vain, my searching eye-balls seek t’ explore
-    The hidden secrets of that mystic shore.
-
-    From time to time, a legion would emerge
-    From its dark region’s shade-encircled verge:                    150
-    But most, ere yet a few short stops were o’er,
-    Fell to the earth, and were beheld no more!
-    A few, indeed, a farther distance past;
-    But, though they sunk not first, they sunk at last.
-    Yet, as _they_ fell, from forth the sable land,
-    All careless of their fate, another band
-    In swift succession issued forth, till they
-    Soon, in their turn, sunk down the dangerous way.
-
-    Methought my feet with rash, unhallow’d tread,
-    My longing eyes, to this dark region led;                        160
-    Methought my hand already seiz’d the shroud,
-    That o’er it hung its canopy of cloud;--
-    Methought, mid those just rushing on to light,
-    I view’d a form, with awful grandeur bright;
-    Upon his beaming brows, in leaves of gold,
-    “Britannia’s greatest glory” was enroll’d!
-    Scarce could I snatch a momentary trace
-    Of these high words, when, through the darksome place,
-    Burst forth these accents, awful, loud, and drear,
-    “Hold back, hold back, rash mortal, and forbear!”
-
-    Scarce was it utter’d, ere the wondrous scene,                   171
-    And those who fill’d it, were no longer seen;
-    And, in the stead of that remember’d dream,
-    I view’d the waves that swell Brent’s shallow stream;
-    And heard the tinkling from the distant fold,
-    Stead of the strains from many a lyre of gold,
-    That e’en but now, had bound the melting soul,
-    In thralls of heav’nly, but of vain control.
-    The grateful spell is broke!--the treasur’d tone--
-    The hallow’d visions--yes, alas!--are flown!                     180
-    And I must back to scenes of loathsome life,
-    Pregnant with sorrow, and profuse with strife.
-
-    Yes! though the hand of time has scarcely spread
-    His roseate wreath of youth around my head,
-    Yet I have felt, how keen the piercing dart,
-    That grief can give, to lacerate the heart.--
-    Yes, I have felt, how full of care, alas!
-    The thorny paths that man is doom’d to pass.
-    But for a bright, and ofttimes cheering ray,
-    Athwart my dark and melancholy way;                              190
-    For many a soothing, many a raptur’d hour,
-    I bless, my Muse, thy sweet celestial pow’r.
-    Oh, mayst thou still continue, o’er my soul,
-    To hold, for aye, thine heav’n-inspir’d control.
-    Oh, mayst thou still in many a dream like this,
-    Give thine unearthly purity of bliss!
-    Till snatch’d from life, from all its trammels free,
-    I lose its searing bitterness--in thee!
-
-
-
-
-Upon the Death
-
-OF
-
-A LATE MAN OF QUALITY,
-
-Well known for his Atheistical Principles.
-
-_Written at Thirteen._
-
-
-    Behold that man by Fortune’s fickle pow’r,
-    The gilded fav’rite of the “varying hour;”--
-    The gallant lord, whom noble ladies love,
-    Whom senates homage, and whom crowds approve.
-
-    For him, the bards attune their soften’d lays,
-    In mellow notes, declare their patron’s praise;--
-    For him, soft luxury courts each distant shore,
-    To tempt his palate with its varied store;--
-    For him, the goblet flows with Gallia’s wine,
-    And wit, and beauty, all their pow’rs combine;                    10
-    His sov’reign’s smile illumes his pageant day;
-    And thronging courtiers servile incense pay.
-    Revers’d the scene!--behold him stript of all!
-    Though great his height, yet greater still his fall!
-    Ah! see him stretch’d upon his dying bed,
-    His vain associates, num’rous flatt’rers fled:
-    Dim are those eyes, once darting soul and fire--
-    Pallid that cheek, which ladies wont t’ admire;--
-    Clos’d are those lips, once eloquently gay,
-    Whose fire of wit illum’d the festive day;--                      20
-    Ah! see his wasted limbs convuls’d by death,
-    Painful, and hard, he draws his quivering breath.
-
-    How different far, he views the face of things!--
-    How poor the comfort worldly wisdom brings!--
-    How deep he rues the fatal time that’s past,
-    When each new day was guiltier than the last;--
-    How much regrets the tale of former years,
-    The wide, black prospect, scarce a virtue cheers:
-    Tremendous mem’ry, to his mind displays,
-    The vice, the crimes, that stain’d his earlier days.              30
-    Lo, he starts up;--his matted ringlets stare,
-    Like dying lamps, his glazing eye-balls glare.
-    Heard ye that scream?--and see ye not the fiend,
-    Come hot from hell to warn him of his end?
-    See ye him grin?--and wide display a scroll,
-    The horrid records of the sable soul?
-    Or is it Conscience all?--Again that cry,
-    That mocks description in its agony.
-    Peace!--peace!--upon that withering sound at last,
-    To heav’n’s high Judgement-Seat th’ escaping spirit’s past.       40
-
-
-
-
-TO LYRA.
-
-_Written at Fifteen Years Old._
-
-
-    By Idalia’s secret grove--
-    By the streams so dear to love--
-    By the beds, and fragrant bow’rs,
-    Fram’d from Flora’s brightest flow’rs--
-    By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
-    Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?
-
-    By the transports of the lyre,
-    Bursting forth in hallow’d fire--
-    By thy tongue’s celestial lay,
-    Melting all the soul away--                                       10
-    By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
-    Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?
-
-    By the passion-breathing sigh,
-    When youthful rapture rises high--
-    By the drop of glist’ning dew,
-    In thine eye of violet blue--
-    By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
-    Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?
-
-    By thy bosom’s heaving snow--
-    By thine orb’s averted glow--                                     20
-    By this lovely hand of thine,
-    Trembling, thrilling, now in mine--
-    By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
-    Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?
-
-
-
-
-FAREWELL TO LYRA.
-
-_Written at Fifteen._
-
-
-    Farewell, oh farewell! though distance may sever
-    The persons of lovers, their hearts it can never;
-    And mine will still, Lyra, be tending on thee,
-    As the bird of the night on his own fragrant tree[18].
-    Can I think of the tear in thine orbit of blue,
-    When I falt’ringly murmur’d, “My Lyra, adieu!”--
-    Can I think of that hand, as it trembled in mine,
-      How pensive, yet sweet, was its exquisite thrill;
-    While my pulse woke the motion of transport in thine,              9
-      Like the balm of the gale on the breast of the rill.
-    Can I think of the gift, when thou sigh’d, “we must part,”
-    That thou cast o’er my bosom to lie on my heart;
-    And as my keen anguish, thou sawest the while,
-    Thou strove to look up with a soul-soothing smile;
-    But when there, thou caught the wild glancing of pain,
-    Thou burst into tears (oh, how heartfelt!) again:--
-    Can I think of that scene, which remembrance will show,
-    As the sweetest, yet bitt’rest, it ever can know--
-    Can I think of that scene, and, oh! e’er can I be,
-    E’en in thought, for a moment unfaithful to thee?                 20
-    And now, as thy gift to my bosom I’m pressing,
-      Oh! dost thou not think, my belov’d, it will glow,
-    Like the mariner’s star--like the pilgrim’s last blessing,
-      To guide and to cheer through this desert of wo.
-    And if ever my country should call to the field
-      Of Honour’s thick slaughter, and Death’s scenes of gore,
-    Oh, dost thou not think that my head it will shield,
-      As the magical charms of the wizards of yore.
-    As it rests on my heart, I shall think that thine eye
-      Nerves mine arm, and enkindles the flame of my soul,
-    It will soften that heart to the conquer’d’s weak cry--
-      It will blend with its courage, soft Mercy’s control.
-    Or should Fate ever guide, in the patriot’s high cause,
-      To the senate of wisdom, oh, think’st thou this token
-    Will not cull to thy lover his country’s applause--
-      Will not keep the firm ties of the patriot unbroken?
-    And if e’er, for a moment, his bosom should swerve
-    From the dictates of Honour, he’s sworn to observe,
-    As he feels thy lov’d gift on his bosom recline,                  39
-    Will not all there again straight be Virtue’s and thine?
-
-    Yes, my Lyra, while life in thy lover can dwell--
-    While remembrance can give that endearing farewell,
-    He will carry this gift through life’s thorn-sprouting maze;
-      ’Twill sublimate rapture--’twill soften despair--
-    ’Twill lead him from grief, to those bliss-beaming days,
-      When each step was on roses,--for Lyra was there!
-
-    Yet, ah, can my lips e’er those hated words tell,
-    “For ever, my Lyra, for ever farewell!”
-
-    It cannot be _ever_!--or else with the thought,
-    (With feelings, with throes of such agony fraught,)               50
-    This heart would be burst in its innermost core;--
-      Could it beat, and each throb of its beating not be
-    Thine only!--Oh, no, every pulse must be o’er,
-      Ere it once is forgetful of love and of thee.
-    If on earth our fond hopings of passion are riv’n,
-      Yet yonder, oh, gaze!--(where so often before
-    We have pour’d our full sighs) on yon balm-breathing heav’n,
-      There bliss will receive us--there grief be no more;
-    Love will pour round our heads his bright halo divine,
-      Sublim’d to a loftier, mellower glow,                           60
-    All celestial, all warm, like the Magi’s pure shrine,
-      Such as Seraphs can feel--such as heav’n can bestow.
-
-
-
-
-THE CASKET;
-
-ADDRESSED TO A LADY.
-
-_Written at Fourteen._
-
-
-    As Cupid was roving one morning, he found
-      A Casket emblazon’d in diamond and gold;
-    The gems of the ocean embrac’d it around,
-      And the handmaids of Venus had sculptured its mould.
-
-    “How transcendent must be the interior store
-      “Of so bright an exterior,” the mirth-lover cries,
-    As he hastens, in rapture, its depths to explore,
-      With joy in his dimples, and hope in his eyes.
-
-    But, I would ye had seen how he alter’d his air,
-      How he rag’d!--how to earth the gay bauble he cast,             10
-    When the richness of splendour that promis’d so fair,
-      Was empty of aught--save the æther that past.
-
-    Thus the beaming of beauty may dazzle the glance,
-      Though void of the stores that beneath them should be;
-    But when the gay casket is open’d--the trance
-      Of hopefulness fades like the foam of the sea.
-
-    But, in thee, Queen of Loveliness, wond’ring we find,
-      Not merely the time-searing bloom of the skin,
-    But the grace of the form, and the wealth of the mind,
-      The Casket of Beauty, the treasure within.                      20
-
-
-
-
-THE
-
-BATTLE OF WATERLOO;
-
-A POEM,
-
-In Two Cantos.
-
-_Written between Fourteen and Fifteen._
-
-
-CANTO I.
-
-    “It timor, et major Martis jam apparet imago.”
-              _Virgil._
-
-
-
-
-                                  TO
-
-                       THOSE ILLUSTRIOUS HEROES,
-
-               WHOSE LAURELS ARE THE BRIGHTEST ORNAMENTS
-
-                                OF THE
-
-                           BRIGHTEST VICTORY
-
-                   WHICH HAS EVER GRACED THE ANNALS
-
-                                OF THE
-
-                           BRITISH HISTORY;
-
-              WHOSE NAMES THE BARD GLORIES TO CELEBRATE,
-
-                   AND FAME DELIGHTS TO IMMORTALIZE;
-
-                               THIS POEM
-
-                             IS DEDICATED,
-
-                BY THEIR YOUTHFUL, BUT ARDENT ADMIRER,
-
-                                   EDW: GEO: LYTTON BULWER
-
-
-
-
-THE
-
-BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
-
-CANTO I.
-
-
-I.
-
-    Awake, my Muse, and o’er my trembling lyre
-    Breath but one spark of that celestial fire,
-    But one bright beam, unconscious of decay,
-    Which shew’d thy bard Parnassus’ flow’ry way;
-    Immortal Homer! for a bolder theme,
-    Than ever yet has rous’d my youthful dream,
-    The deeds of warriors, the delights of war,
-    And all the glories of the trophied car,
-    Begin Calliope!--to these belong
-    A more than common, more than mortal song!                        10
-
-
-II.
-
-    Now stands brave Wellesley on the tow’ring height,
-    Surveys the war, and kindles at the sight;
-    O’er each wide rank he casts his eager eye,
-    Inspired by hope, to conquer, or to die.
-    Firm, in the midst, the British guards appear,
-    A band of heroes, never known to fear;
-    Alcides’ strength on ev’ry form we trace,
-    Bellona’s ardour, and Apollo’s grace;
-    Lions in war, possess’d of ev’ry art,
-    To gain the combat, or to win the heart.                          20
-    Pale Brunswick mourning for her leader slain,
-    Spreads her bold legions o’er the martial plain
-    Far on the right,--with them in numbers pour,
-    A race of warriors from the Belgian shore.
-    The haughty war-steed, glorying to bear
-    His noble burthen, closes up the rear.
-
-
-III.
-
-    Then to the hostile hosts, who adverse stand,
-    The pride of France, the flow’r of all her land.
-    Strain’d to the left he casts his eager sight,
-    Where the proud eagle rears her tow’ring height;                  30
-    These hardy troops, Napoléon’s brother led,
-    While to the right Lobau’s brave squadrons spread.
-    Erlon and Reille, in warlike tumults known,
-    Of vict’ry hoping, in the centre shone;
-    Not their’s, or sportive joust, or mimic fray,--
-    The fate of Europe hung upon that day.
-    The mighty leader of each glorious band,
-    For the first time, in arms confronting stand;
-    While Vict’ry doubted which her palm might claim,
-    For each was equal in the lists of fame.                          40
-
-
-IV.
-
-    Proud Gallia’s haughty eagle’s rear’d on high,
-    And thund’ring cannon rend the vaulted sky;
-    Majestic Death stalks o’er the bloody plain,
-    And Honour’s bed receives her heroes slain.
-    By thee, brave Picton, what great deeds were done,
-    What martial laurels grac’d thy setting sun!
-    In Fame’s first page, thy glorious name returned,
-    What tears erabalm’d thee, and what hearts have mourn’d!
-    Ah! how record the mighty chiefs that fell,
-    While peals of cannon sound their fun’ral knell!                  50
-
-
-V.
-
-    Napoléon urg’d his ever-dauntless band,
-    Nerv’d was each arm, and bare each shining brand;
-    Flush’d was each cheek, joy beam’d in ev’ry eye,--
-    They seem’d to think it were a bliss to die.
-    “Forward, my comrades; forward speed your way,
-    Our guardian genius shall record this day!”
-    They wait no more!--the courser feels the rein
-    No longer check him from the warring plain.
-    Thirsting for blood, impatient for the fight,
-    The sabre glitters with effulgent light;
-    Rear’d by that arm, which knows no other laws,                    60
-    Than courting glory, in its chieftain’s cause.
-
-
-VI.
-
-    On, as the waves, they roll their sweeping course,
-    Where stood the pride of Caledonia’s force:
-    This legion saw the mighty hosts appear,
-    Nor yet it felt one dastard throb of fear;
-    Perhaps a sigh prolong’d the lover’s breath,
-    As one who saw th’ approach of certain death!
-    Perhaps the father’s anxious love might know
-    One throb of feeling cross his manly brow;                        70
-    Perhaps a tear the patriot’s cheek might stain,
-    For that dear land, he ne’er might see again;--
-    Yet, if the drop of soften’d love would stray,
-    The warrior wip’d th’ unbidden guest away!
-
-
-VII.
-
-    Slacken’d each rein, each Scottish brand was bare,
-    The dancing plumage kiss’d the lurid air!
-    Their steeds they urge--hark!--“Scotland” is the cry,
-    The loyal sound the echoing hills reply.
-    Link’d in one body, small, yet firm they go,
-    And charge impetuous on the yielding foe.                         80
-    Dismay’d, confounded at the glorious sight,
-    In vain the Gauls would claim the equal fight;
-    On ev’ry side their comrades strew the plain,
-    And heaps arise of Gallia’s mighty slain:
-    The useless sabre drops,--they turn,--they fly,
-    The serrying cannon follows through the sky.
-    Thus the rhinoceros, on Afric’s shore,
-    Hears from afar the tawny lion’s roar,
-    Cold tremblings o’er his giant members grow,
-    He flies affrighted from a weaker foe.                            90
-
-
-VIII.
-
-    Now in full speed t’ avenge their comrades slain,
-    A Gallic column sweeps along the plain;
-    And Scotia, aided by an English band,
-    Against that column makes her glorious stand.
-    Oh, thou Calliope, inspire the song,
-    Which falters o’er thy suppliant’s drooping tongue.
-
-    Each adverse warrior combats hand to hand,
-    No other weapon than the wounding brand;
-    Charger ’gainst charger, man ’gainst man engage,                  99
-    Sword clangs ’gainst sword, and all is blood and rage,
-    Lo! in the thickest of the martial storm,
-    The Gallic eagle rears her golden form;
-    Symbol of conquest, ever known to bring
-    Dark desolation on her fatal wing;
-    At whose dread sight submissive nations bow’d,
-    Lord of the mighty, conq’ror of the proud:
-    Destructive Bird! whose iron pow’r was bore,
-    By Vict’ry’s gales, to Earth’s remotest shore.
-
-
-IX.
-
-    But gallant Ewart, foremost of the fight,                        109
-    Saw her proud form, and mark’d her glitt’ring height.
-    His steed he spurr’d, and, with determin’d hand,
-    He grasp’d her staff, and rais’d his Scottish brand:
-    But brave Dubois (who held the bird of Jove)
-    Still kept his hold, and fierce contesting strove,
-    While to his left hand firm the standard clung,
-    Keen in his right the clashing falchion rung;
-    He mark’d the Briton with indignant eye,
-    And tow’rds the breast and downwards to the thigh
-    Sends the sharp blade,--but Ewart’s sword was there,
-    And turn’d the blow, averted, into air;                          120
-    And sudden rais’d that sword with giant force,
-    Full on the Frenchman’s crest he drove its course,
-    Pierc’d the strong helm, and clove the chieftain’s head,
-    Through brain, through jaws, and e’en the neck it sped;
-    Then wrathful drew it lukewarm from the brain,
-    And seiz’d the eagle from the conquer’d slain:
-    But, ’gainst the victor, with revengeful speed,
-    An hostile lancer spurr’d his foaming steed,
-    And urg’d his spear; but, bending from the blow,
-    The wary Briton disappoints the foe;                             130
-    And, ere the lancer could his falchion gain,
-    He stretch’d him lifeless on the purple plain.
-
-
-X.
-
-    Then stern De Valence, with revengeful eye,
-    Perceiv’d the deeds of Scottish bravery;
-    Stirr’d up by vengeance, and the love of fame,
-    He fir’d his carbine with an hasty aim,--
-    But miss’d the Scotsman, though not vainly sped,
-    It pierc’d immortal Campbell’s plumy head.
-    And could not worth, and could not valour save
-    The great, the godlike Campbell from the grave?                  140
-    Yet is thy death reveng’d,--for Ewart’s blade
-    Sent thy dark murderer to appease thy shade;
-    And he the bird of Jove victorious bore,
-    Red with the streams of its defender’s gore.
-
-
-XI.
-
-    Here Mars, terrific, wheel’d his iron car,
-    And stirr’d the fight, and gloried in the war;
-    No modern field could ever yet behold
-    A fight so slaught’rous, and a war so bold.
-    The steel-clad Gaul derides the gath’ring storm,
-    Which pours in torrents o’er his warlike form;                   150
-    Yet, though his _breast_ the pond’rous cuirass shield,
-    His slaughter’d _limbs_ bestrew the bloody field.
-    Each seem’d resolv’d the victor’s prize to claim,
-    Each seem’d resolv’d to live, or die, in fame.
-    But nought could stop the firm, determin’d course
-    Of Scotia’s strength, of Scotia’s matchless force:
-    Then, in that hour to Caledon so dear,
-    Proud Gallia learnt her mighty name to fear:
-    She turns--she rallies--then again we view
-    Her numbers fly;--the gallant Scots pursue!                      160
-    Yet was that victory bought by many a tear,
-    O’er Cameron’s, Mitchell’s, and o’er Holmes’s bier;
-    And long th’ historian and the muse shall tell,
-    How bright they triumph’d, and how great they fell.
-
-
-XII.
-
-    Mean time, where Hougoumont conspicuous stands,
-    The valiant Byng draws up his Albion bauds;
-    And _there_ the hottest of the battle rag’d,--
-    _There_ Gauls and Britons fiercest warfare wag’d.
-    As some tall rock, the Anglian centre stood,
-    While Saltoun battled for the neighboring wood;                  170
-    And, as the stormy waves, the Gauls roll’d on,
-    Led by fierce Jerome, and the sage D’Erlon.
-    The tubes of death sent lightning through the air;
-    The arm of fate, the sword of Jove, was bare.
-    So thick the smoke, the eye could scarce survey
-    What its next object in the dire affray;
-    Save, where the sulphur flash’d on some proud crest,
-    Or danc’d terrific on the steel-clad breast:
-    The warrior rear’d his arm,--then, sudden fell,
-    Nor knew who sent him to the gates of hell.                      180
-    Long was the fight, and furiously severe,
-    For neither host e’er felt the pow’r of fear:
-    Here fell the flow’r of Britain! here the pride
-    Of Gallia’s long-extended squadrons died!
-    Whose muse can sing, whose daring tongue can tell,
-    What heroes triumph’d, and what chieftains fell?
-    How many a youth, who ne’er had fought before,
-    Sent souls unnumber’d to the Stygian shore?
-    How Gauls and Britons pil’d the field with slain,
-    And, foes in death, still grappled on the plain?                 190
-
-
-XIII.
-
-    But here, while Mars and dread Bellona rag’d,
-    And the hot conflict Gaul and Albion wag’d,
-    An hostile race, from Poland’s northern shore,
-    On Wellesley’s bands their martial numbers pour;
-    Skill’d in the art, a piercing death they bear,
-    Their native arms, the far-extending spear.
-    Th’ heroic Ponsonby perceiv’d the band,--
-    Forth from the scabbard leapt his beamy brand;
-    His heaving breast with indignation burn’d,
-    While to his troops the godlike warrior turn’d:                  200
-    “Shall haughty Poland triumph o’er the plain,
-    And boast her heaps of Britain’s mighty slain?
-    Shall Poland conquer in this glorious day,
-    And bear the prize from Albion’s race away?
-    Forward, my friends! exalt your matchless name,
-    And seize the moment to increase your fame!”
-
-
-XIV.
-
-    Thus spoke the chief;--then drove his angry course
-    Where Poland pour’d her unrelenting force:
-    Sharing his rage, exulting in his wrath,
-    His troops pursue his death-awakening path.                      210
-    As, when the torrents overwhelm the plain,
-    And threaten ruin to the golden grain;
-    So, fierce with hatred and revenge, they go
-    And heap destruction on th’ astounded foe:
-    Some fly; yet some with bolder courage fir’d,
-    Still keep their ground, by martial rage inspir’d:
-    And first, dark Holstein, whom Eliza bore
-    To fierce Kolinskorf, on Masavia’s shore;
-    Another Hercules, whose mighty hand
-    Could awe the boldest of a modern band,                          220
-    With scornful eye, beheld the hostile storm,
-    Wav’d his bright lance, and rear’d his giant form;
-    Where rag’d the fiercest of the British force,
-    With pow’rful arm, he drove his sweeping course.
-
-
-XV.
-
-    But Cecil, lov’d of Pallas, met the Pole,
-    And all the hero kindled in his soul.
-    His steed he spurr’d, on high his youthful hand
-    Rear’d the bright terrors of the blasting brand;
-    But Holstein saw th’ impending danger near,
-    With giant strength he hurl’d his weighty spear;                 230
-    Like lightning-flash, it piere’d the Briton’s side,
-    And life receded on the crimson tide.
-    Forth from the victor’s sheath the sword was bare,
-    Hov’ring on high, it thinn’d the ranks of war;
-    Ten bleeding warriors, gasping on the strand,
-    Proclaim’d the prowess of his mighty hand;
-    Terror and death attend his rabid way,
-    And conquest claim’d him as her own that day.
-
-
-XVI.
-
-    Him Ponsonby, in arms renown’d, espies,
-    With raging bosom, and with vengeful eyes;                       240
-    His gory hand upon the holster hung,
-    Then, through the air the loud explosion rung:--
-    Why droops the arm which scatter’d death from far?
-    Why sinks the pride, the terror of the war?
-    Th’ unerring ball, the winds of fate have bore,
-    And that proud arm shall scatter death no more:
-    One threat’ning glance, one vengeful look he cast
-    Towards the foe;--that action was his last:--
-    Yet still in death his lurid eye-balls glare,
-    The fire of hate, of fierce contempt, is there;                  250
-    On his curl’d lip the scornful smile yet hung,
-    Still in his hand the deadly falchion rung,
-    O’er that pale cheek, scarce bronz’d by manhood’s glow,
-    Crimson’d by gore, the sable ringlets flow.
-    Weep Poland! weep! the bloody work is done,
-    In tears of anguish mourn thy slaughter’d son.
-
-
-XVII.
-
-    And now, exulting o’er the glorious slain,
-    The troops of Ponsonby usurp the plain:
-    Where’er their leader’s conq’ring claymore shone,
-    _There_, may the widow make her joyless moan;                    260
-    The orphan’s wailing, and the mother’s tear;
-    The maiden’s anguish, and the sire’s despair;
-    The dying warrior’s last accusing breath,
-    And all the laurell’d pageantry of death;
-    Pursue the path their chieftain’s bloody blade
-    Through the thick whirl of eddying hosts has made.
-    And now the Poles on ev’ry side give way,
-    And, routed, yield the fortunes of the day:
-    But, warm’d by fame, exulting in their might,
-    Too far the conq’rors urge the conquer’d’s flight;               270
-    And their dread _leader_’s[19] all-surveying eyes
-    Saw the rash deed of heated enterprise.
-    To check their unadvis’d, and hasty speed,
-    Across the plain, he spurr’d his foaming steed;
-    Fleeter than air, and swifter than the wind,
-    The scene of conquest soon he leaves behind.
-
-
-XVIII.
-
-    A field there was, on which the lab’ring swain
-    Had lately sown the life-supporting grain:
-    Soft was the soil, by vernal showers fed,                        279
-    Damp, yielding moistures o’er the plain were spread.
-    By fate ordain’d, its baleful influence lay
-    Where the swift courser urg’d his flying way;
-    Light, o’er the bank which mark’d the treach’rous ground
-    Swift as a dart, his fairy footsteps bound.
-    Why stops his speed? why rolls his frenzied eye?
-    Why lost the pow’r, but not the wish to fly?
-    Why vainly strive to quit the fatal field?
-    With all the strength which agony can yield,
-    Why vainly nerve each mighty limb to strain?
-    Each effort binds him closer to the plain;                       290
-    The hand of fate has fix’d his master there,
-    And heav’n has call’d him from his bright career.
-
-
-XIX.
-
-    When that dread chief perceiv’d th’ inglorious doom,
-    Which seem’d to sink him to a living tomb,
-    Pale grew his cheek, his raging eye-balls glare,
-    And thus, to heav’n, he offers up his prayer:--
-    “Oh, thou dread Pow’r, whose mighty name is bore
-    On ev’ry tongue, to earth’s remotest shore!
-    O God Omnipotent, whom all obey,                                 299
-    While heav’n, and earth, and ocean, own thy sway!
-    Bend from thy radiant throne, incline thine ear,
-    Listen! oh, listen! to a suppliant’s pray’r:
-    Not thus inglorious, claim my fleeting breath,
-    But let a warrior, die a warrior’s death!”
-
-    Strong passions drown’d his voice, yet heav’n had heard
-    The pray’r by valour’s votary preferr’d:
-    Far to the right, a moving host appears,
-    The sunbeams glitt’ring on their hostile spears.
-
-    As some dark mist, when wintry storms arise,
-    Slow, spreads its influence o’er the mirky skies;                310
-    So, (wrapt in dusk and smoke,) the distant train
-    Obscure the fields, and slowly sweep the plain.
-
-
-XX.
-
-    Brightly the chieftain smil’d! a gladdening beam
-    Shot o’er his brow, his bloodshot eye-balls gleam;
-    Backwards his view, with haughty joy he cast
-    Towards the bounds his fiery steed had past;--
-    One sole, one fond, one faithful friend was there,--
-    A brother’s love had join’d the godlike pair;
-    From youth to manhood, grew that love sublime,
-    Began by virtue, and matur’d by time.                            320
-    When peace and plenty held their golden reign,
-    And crown’d the efforts of the lab’ring swain,
-    Th’ unmeasurable space they wander’d o’er
-    Of wisdom’s paths, of learning’s sacred lore:
-    But, when Bellona yok’d her iron car,
-    And honour call’d them to the paths of war,
-    Still, side by side, the youthful heroes led
-    Their hardy warriors to their country’s aid;
-    The aim of each, amidst the bloody strife,                       330
-    To scorn his own, to guard his comrade’s life.
-    If ’gainst the chieftain’s bosom gleam’d the spear,
-    The other’s arm would ward the danger near;
-    And, if th’ uplifted sabre of the foe
-    Should rise, to lay his lov’d companion low,
-    The mighty Ponsonby’s avenging hand,
-    Would smite the threat’ner lifeless on the strand.
-
-
-XXI.
-
-    His long-tried friend had not o’er past the bound,
-    Which mark’d the limits of the fatal ground;
-    For when he saw the sad, untimely end
-    Which seem’d to wait his dearer half, his friend,                340
-    Beneath a weight of more than mortal care,
-    He stood transfix’d in motionless despair;
-    His falt’ring tongue, with agony of wo,
-    Cleav’d to his mouth! his blood forgot to flow.
-    The glorious leader saw his mighty grief,
-    And, pitying, strove to give his friend relief:
-    The stern contempt of death, the warrior’s pride,
-    No more his feelings or his judgment guide;
-    To gentlest passions meltingly resign’d
-    Each harsh emotion of his mighty mind:                           350
-    Soft beam’d his lucid eye, the kindling flame
-    Melted to love, before a brother’s name.
-    With soften’d voice, and pitying looks, began
-    The parting accents of the godlike man.
-
-
-XXII.
-
-    “Ah! more than brother, for thy gen’rous heart
-    Has ever shewn a more than brother’s part;
-    Say, my beloved, can the sobbing breath,
-    The ling’ring tear, put off the stroke of death?
-    The hand of destiny has fix’d my doom,
-    By heav’n allotted to a warrior’s tomb.                          360
-    Yet still my words in prophecy may say,
-    Death shall not call my ev’ry part away:
-    To late posterity, recording fame
-    Shall tell the triumphs that adorn my name.
-    Check then, O chosen of my soul, the tear
-    Which mourns my path to Honour’s proudest bier;
-    Accept a short, a last farewell, ere death
-    Has chill’d my tongue, or claim’d my fleeting breath.”
-    ‘Hold!’ cried the youth; but thus the chief pursued,
-    While with fond eyes, his dearer self he view’d:                 370
-    “Back to my wife, her lovely image bear,
-    Torn from that heart which only beats for her.
-    Ah! check the orphan’s tear, the widow’s sigh,
-    Tell them, the lot of mortals is to die!”
-
-
-XXIII.
-
-    Then drew a portrait from his manly breast,
-    And to his lips th’ unconscious image prest,
-    Gave it one sad, one ling’ring, last adieu,
-    Then to his friend the precious token threw:
-    “Fly, fly, my friend, ere yet it be too late,                    379
-    E’en now approach the vengeful troops of fate.”
-    ‘Die will I first,’ the faithful youth replies,
-    While love courageous sparkles in his eyes;
-    His steed he struck; his clanging arms rebound,
-    The charger speeds him to the fatal ground,
-    Close by the chieftain’s side: a smile as bright
-    As erst o’er Chrishna shot its dazzling light[20],
-    Flash’d o’er that pallid cheek with brilliant glow,
-    Like sunshine beaming o’er an heap of snow.
-    ‘Living, or dead, no earthly hand shall part
-    The ties that bind thee to this constant heart.’                 390
-    No more he could;--he scarce could bare his brand,
-    When down impetuous pour’d the hostile band.
-    They saw the swampy marsh the chiefs that held,
-    Nor dar’d, incautious, leap the fatal field,
-    But from afar, their flying weapons pour,
-    A glitt’ring tempest, and an iron show’r.
-
-
-XXIV.
-
-    Pierc’d by seven mortal wounds, oppress’d, at length,
-    Spite of his valour, struggles, and his strength,
-    All hurl’d upon his godlike form from far,
-    Sinks first the bulwark of the British war.                      400
-    Thus falls the lion in the treach’rous snare,
-    Which o’er the woods the Lybian youths prepare,
-    Sunk by a grove of darts, he strives in vain,
-    And falls at last, invincible, though slain.
-
-
-    Cold grew his comrade’s cheek! for wild despair,
-    And frenzied wo, and agony, was there.
-    Sprung from his flound’ring steed, with aching breast,
-    The lifeless hero in his arms he prest.
-    ‘Take, O ye war-hounds! take my hateful breath,
-    We lov’d in life, and still we’ll join in death.’                410
-    Swift through the air a fatal jav’lin prest,
-    Pierc’d through his scarf, and sunk within his breast.
-    One glance, expressive of contempt, he cast,
-    Then kiss’d his friend, and, smiling, breath’d his last.
-
-
-END OF CANTO I.
-
-
-
-
-THE
-
-BATTLE OF WATERLOO;
-
-A POEM,
-
-In Two Cantos.
-
-CANTO II.
-
-
-
-
-THE
-
-BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
-
-CANTO II.
-
-
-I.
-
-    Again, Calliope, my song inspire,
-    And sweep the numbers from my falt’ring lyre;
-    Again the joys of war, and warriors, sing,
-    And wake to life each wild-resounding string;
-    Oh! give that verse which soars beyond control,
-    Which fires the genius, and awakes the soul.
-    E’en now, e’en now, impatient of delays,
-    Across my mind thy beamy influence plays.
-
-
-II.
-
-    Bright was the noon!--for Phœbus’ warmest ray
-    Illum’d the slaughters of the dreadful day:                       10
-    Hush’d was each ruder wind!--all nature seem’d to wait
-    In mute attention on a world’s debate.
-    Far as the eye could reach, the breeze could bear,
-    The wand’ring sound, to rapt suspence’s ear;
-    All was one mix’d, and one promiscuous train
-    Of warring heroes, scattered o’er the plain.
-    Thus through the glassy hive the bees we view,
-    Industrious race, their various tasks pursue,
-    Confus’d, dispers’d, to unaccustom’d eyes,--
-    Yet each a settled occupation plies.                              20
-
-
-III.
-
-    The frighten’d skies are red with bursting fire,
-    Warriors on warriors, heaps on heaps expire;
-    The cannon’s roar, the martial music’s sound;
-    The conq’rers’ shouts, and conquer’d’s groans confound.
-    The mighty hosts promiscuously engage,
-    And war terrific, burns with tenfold rage.
-    War! horrid war! whom Death to Pluto bore,
-    ’Mids’t the dark caverns of th’ infernal shore;
-    A dreadful monster, at whose baleful birth,
-    Love, Peace, and Plenty, fled the groaning earth.                 30
-    His form was horrid, ghastly, grim, and fell,
-    No mortal man its terrors e’er can tell!
-    A wreath of skulls his iron temples bound,
-    Where’er he trod, red carnage dy’d the ground,--
-    All nature wither’d at his dire advance,
-    And nations sunk beneath his lurid glance.
-    Four raging tygers, with tremendous roar,
-    His sweeping car (a thund’ring cannon) bore;
-    Confusion, Flight, and Terror’s wild alarms,
-    Shrieking pursue his all-destroying arms.                         40
-    But to the view, the treach’rous demon show’d
-    A form that bright with glorious beauty glow’d;
-    And held, deceitful, in his bloody hand,
-    Giv’n by Ambition, an enchanted wand--
-    And this he wav’d! and, to the wond’ring eyes,
-    Sceptres, and crowns, and laurell’d wreaths would rise:--
-    But now he gloried o’er the Gallic plain,
-    To feast in triumph on the mighty slain.
-
-
-IV.
-
-    O thou, Calliope, the heroes tell,
-    Who, bright with honour and with glory, fell;                     50
-    While Retrospection’s sweetly pensive tear,
-    Moistens the bays that blossom round their bier.
-    For them no friend can soothe the quiv’ring breath,
-    And give the last sad offices of death;
-    For them no prayers of pitying love are giv’n--
-    No priest consoling points the road to heav’n;
-    Their whit’ning bones no stately urn shall hide,--
-    No flatt’ring bust--no monument of pride;
-    ’Mids’t piles of slaughter’d thousands lost, they lie,
-    By all forsaken, unregarded die.                                  60
-    Yet each seem’d gladly to resign his breath,
-    And hail th’ approach of honourable death:
-    And still in death, o’er each undaunted face,
-    Nought but the pride of heroism you’d trace;--
-    Each dying warrior, welt’ring on the strand,
-    Still strain’d each nerve to grasp his broken brand.
-
-
-V.
-
-    As Gordon, great in arms, whose glorious name
-    Was ever foremost of the sons of Fame,
-    (With that bright warmth of love and friendly fire,
-    Which only godlike Wellesley can inspire;)                        70
-    Besought his chief, who mingled with the strife,
-    Of danger heedless, to regard his life,
-    A ball, fast hissing on the airy tide,
-    Stretched the brave soldier by his leader’s side.
-    And glorious Canning, ere the shades of death
-    Had numb’d his arm, or stopt his fleeting breath,
-    Rais’d up his eyes to heav’n, and faintly cried,
-    “Ah, bless my chief”--and in that blessing died!
-    The brave Delancey left his native land,                          79
-    Young Hymen’s chaplet, and Love’s plighted hand--
-    He left them all!--for Honour’s notes afar
-    Proclaim’d the signal of reviving war:
-    Destruction hover’d where his falchion prest,
-    And Fate’s dark lightnings glitter’d round his crest.
-    But Death, with envy, saw his feats that day,
-    Another Death, he thought, had bore his pow’r away;
-    He rais’d his arm--he hurl’d the fatal dart,
-    And bad it moisten in the warrior’s heart;
-    Urg’d by the spectre’s hand, the weapon prest,                    89
-    Pierc’d the knight’s garb, and sunk within his breast,--
-    Adown his bosom stream’d the ebbing blood,
-    And life came rushing on the purple flood.
-
-
-VI.
-
-    Two British heroes, of a meaner name,
-    That day shone proudly in the field of Fame;
-    Immortal Thonne, and bold Herculean Shawe,
-    Before whose arms, with fear and wond’ring awe,
-    Proud Gallia shrunk; while gasping on the strand,
-    Nine chieftains fell by Thonne’s destructive hand.
-    D’Avigné fam’d throughout the Gallic race,
-    For warlike honours, and for martial grace,                      100
-    Perceiv’d the victor glorying from afar,
-    And spurr’d his courser to the promis’d war:
-    So the fierce tyger stalks the Lybian plain,
-    Exulting o’er the savage nations slain,
-    While o’er each hill, and dark impervious wood,
-    They strive t’ escape the ravisher of blood:
-    Forth from the forest, gaunt with vengeful ire,
-    With stiffen’d mane, and eyes of living fire,
-    Rushes the lion with indignant glow,
-    And pours his fury on the raging foe.                            110
-
-
-VII.
-
-    And first D’Avigné rais’d his mighty hand,
-    Bright with the terrors of the wounding brand;
-    Full on the dauntless Briton’s plumy crest
-    The blow descends,--then glances tow’rds the breast;
-    But there it stopt--the sabre’s parrying care
-    Gleam’d cautious down and turn’d the wound to air.
-    The Briton then his weapon rear’d on high,
-    And mark’d the Frenchman with a wary eye;
-    Then sudden swept his vengeful sword around,
-    And stretch’d his victim gasping on the ground;                  120
-    But, as he lay, ere yet the damps of death
-    Had numb’d his arm, or stopp’d his fleeting breath,
-    Against the charger of his conq’ring foe,
-    Full on the chest, he strikes the griding blow[21];
-    The noble beast, convuls’d by piercing pain,
-    Rear’d his proud form, and shook his flowing mane,
-    Then instant fell--and from the mortal wound,
-    The gushing life’s-blood issued on the ground;
-    Full on his noble master, ere he rose,
-    On ev’ry side resound a hundred blows--                          130
-    A hundred lances glitter at his breast--
-    A hundred strokes re-echo on his crest;
-    He strikes--retreats--advances--strives in vain,
-    And adds another to the heaps of slain.
-    Thus falls some tow’r which long has rear’d its form,
-    And mock’d the fury of the raging storm:
-    The fierce besiegers strive each art in vain,
-    To cast its lofty fabric on the plain;
-    At length the treach’rous mine, with secret care,
-    Beneath its strong foundations they prepare;                     140
-    With horrid crash, its crackling piles resound,
-    And fall, a mighty ruin on the ground.
-
-
-VIII.
-
-    Mean time brave Shawe usurps the martial plain,
-    And spreads the field with Gallic heaps of slain;
-    Where beams his sabre, wild confusion brings
-    Terror and death upon her iron wings;
-    A cuirass’d band of Gallic heroes saw
-    His martial prowess with admiring awe.
-    And first Bernot withdrew his wond’ring eyes,
-    And thus the chief with indignation cries:--                     150
-    “O friends! O soldiers, shall the Gallic name
-    Rest, for a moment, in disgraceful shame?
-    And shall you Briton, glorying from far,
-    Destroy our troops, and thin the ranks of war?
-    Frenchmen, charge forwards! and your king’s applause
-    Awaits your efforts in his glorious cause;
-    For he that sends yon haughty Briton’s head,
-    A worthy off’ring to the noble dead,
-    Napoléon’s self shall grace his radiant name,
-    And age to age perpetuate his fame.”                             160
-    He ceas’d;--and, warm’d by hope, his legion broke
-    Through fires of sulphur, and through mists of smoke[22]:
-    Onwards they roll’d, elate with warrior’s pride,
-    Each soldier charging by his comrade’s side.
-    To check their course, drawn up in firm array,
-    A gallant troop of Britons urge their way.
-    Those arms destructive fill their mighty hands,
-    The bayonet--weapon of the Anglian bands:--
-    They mingle!--hark! what mighty strokes resound--
-    What streams of slaughter dye the thirsty ground!                170
-
-
-IX.
-
-    De Bruyere, bending from his saddle-bow,
-    Aim’d first at British Eth’rington his blow.
-    Thirsting for blood the gleaming weapon prest,
-    And forceful pierc’d the Briton’s sable crest:--
-    He sunk!--but Beauchamp, with indignant eye,
-    Perceived the feat of Gallic bravery,
-    With bayonet charg’d, full rushing on the foe,
-    He pierc’d his courser with a mortal blow;--
-    He fell!--and Bernot, riding o’er the plain,
-    Trod on his crackling crest and crush’d the brain.               180
-    Britons and Gauls now gath’ring clos’d around,
-    One war tumultuous shook th’ affrighted ground:
-    Arm rose ’gainst arm, and man encounter’d man;
-    Through ev’ry breast revenge and hatred ran.
-    At length, so fierce the Britons’ rushing force,
-    In vain the Gauls attempt to stop their course:
-    Slow they retreat!--yet, facing to the foe,
-    Defiance threaten, as they sternly go;
-    But Bernot turn’d, and wav’d his hand on high--
-    “Hold, cowards, hold! nor thus inglorious fly,                   190
-    What, though the fury of yon rushing tide,
-    Our smaller numbers vain attempt to bide;
-    Yet still revenge is ours, yon Briton’s hand[23]
-    Still gives to death the heroes of our land;
-    That mighty warrior, whom we lately swore,
-    Should wreak his fury on our troops no more;
-    Forward with me!--for here again I swear,
-    That if this arm the trusty blade can bear,
-    To meet this dreaded conqueror I fly,
-    I go to conquer--or I go to die!”                                200
-
-
-X.
-
-    He spoke!--and wav’d his scymitar on air,
-    And rush’d impatient to the promis’d war.
-    Five Gallic warriors sharing in his wrath,
-    Eager pursue his devastating path;
-    And soon around the mighty Briton close,
-    And pour on ev’ry side a show’r of blows.
-    Ah! cease! the pitying Muse forbids to tell,
-    How great, in death, that gallant hero fell!
-
-    Still, undiminish’d, Gaul her numbers pours,
-    Vast as the sand that loads the sea-girt shores.                 210
-    E’en by their vict’ries tir’d, in heaps of slain,
-    Fast fall the Britons on the groaning plain.
-    Yet view the various fortunes of that hour,
-    The Anglians’ weakness, and the Frenchmen’s pow’r,
-    You’d find each British form, that loads the ground,
-    Piere’d by _no backward, no inglorious_ wound.
-    And still no murmurs waste their panting breath,
-    When all around they see the works of death;
-    Still with fresh courage they demand to go,
-    And in their turn to charge th’ exulting foe:                    220
-    “On! let us on!” impetuous they cry,
-    “Not thus inglorious,--scarce opposing,--die.”
-    Chief of the Island sons, how great thy praise!--
-    How bright thy honour!--and how green thy bays!
-    “Wait yet, my friends,” the pitying chief would say,
-    “And conquest still shall be our own this day,--
-    Wait yet till come the long-expected force,
-    Till valiant Blücher speeds his driving horse.”
-
-
-XI.
-
-    Yet though his words can animate the heart,
-    And lively courage to each breast impart,                        230
-    Still anxious doubt, though kept in wise control,
-    Chill’d his own cheek, and dampt his mighty soul.
-    If Blücher come not in _one_ passing hour,
-    Full well he knew how weak was all his pow’r.
-    With eagle-eye the squadrons he survey’d,
-    And, where they fainted, sent the timely aid;--
-    His person, counsel, and his chiefest care,
-    Where most the dreadful dangers of the war,
-    And where, disdaining self, his form he threw,
-    To guard that form, invincible they grew.                        240
-    Though less thy skill, not less thy daring might,
-    Uxbridge! thou pride, thou bulwark of the fight!
-    Shew me, ye Muses of Parnassian shades,
-    A chief more glorious for the horse brigades--
-    A chief more skill’d to please th’ unconstant fair,
-    Or shine the first, and foremost of the war.
-    But by thy fire of valour led away,
-    A shot, at close of that tremendous day,
-    Mangled thy form, and drove thee from the fray.
-
-
-XII.
-
-    Lo! where Hibernia pours her gen’rous train,                     250
-    Dread of her foes, and foremost of the plain;
-    Bright honour, and the em’rald isle, their cry,
-    To fall is glory--infamy to fly.
-    Mean time, brave Orange, mightiest of his name,
-    Spreads desolation o’er the field of Fame.
-    Great Prince! who, midst the thickest of the strife,
-    Led on by native ardour, risk’d his life.
-    Encompass’d round, amidst the hostile lines,
-    Th’ heroic youth his liberty resigns:
-    A Belgian troop rush timely in, to save                          260
-    The gallant chieftain from an early grave.
-    The brilliant gem, th’ insignia’s regal pride,
-    That matchless hero from his form untied,
-    With grateful ardour, midst the martial crew,
-    The signs of birth and royalty he threw.
-    “Long live our Prince! long live our martial Lord!”
-    Shout Belgia’s hardy sons, with one accord;
-    “Come life, come death, this token we will shield,
-    Through all the dangers of the dreadful field.”                  269
-    Then where their ranks the tow’ring standard grac’d,
-    With pride exulting, the rich ensign plac’d;
-    Along the plain, as driving bail, they pour,
-    And flood the field with many a stream of gore.
-
-
-XIII.
-
-    But, lo! where yonder, what approaching train,
-    Wrapt in a cloud of smoke, obscure the plain?--
-    ’Tis they!--’tis they!--the long-expected force,
-    ’Tis godlike Blücher rolls his sweeping course;--
-    ’Tis Bulow, dreadful thunderbolt of war,
-    Leads Prussia’s injur’d warriors from afar;
-    And, as they wound along the mountain’s brow,                    280
-    They hurl’d their cannon on the Gauls below;
-    While the red sulphur, seem’d in pride to dance,
-    On the broad blade, steel crest, and gleaming lance;
-    And, as their bright and lengthen’d squadrons roll’d on high,
-    They seem’d like shadowy legions, gliding through the sky.
-
-    Monarch of Gaul, what pangs of hopeless wo
-    Dim thy bright eye, and cross thy thoughtful brow,
-    Where all around thee heaps of death arise,
-    And Prussia’s cannon seem to rend the skies;
-    And where the warlike bands of Cossacks fly,                     290
-    Resolv’d to conquer, or sublimely die;--
-    Where Briton’s Genius rears her tow’ring head,
-    No longer weeping o’er the glorious dead.
-
-
-XIV.
-
-    Lo! o’er the Monarch’s cheek, a gladd’ning ray
-    Danc’d in his eye, and bad the smile to play,
-    Where on the right his fav’rite legion stands,
-    The imperial guards, those ever-dauntless bands;
-    Swift in the midst his arm he wav’d on high,
-    “On, soldiers on, to conquer, or to die!”
-    Then, where the bravest of the British force,                    300
-    He leads the way, and points their angry course;
-    As when the stormy waves are o’er the deep,
-    With hope of glory on that legion sweep.
-    E’en their brave enemies hung back, and saw
-    Their stern battalions with admiring awe.
-    That man, to whom contending nations bow’d,
-    Whose iron sceptre half a world allow’d--
-    Whose rapid fortunes urg’d the wheels of Fate--
-    Whose prosp’rous victories seem’d of endless date,
-    Now shapes his way, and fires his daring band,                   310
-    With Vengeance’ torch terrific in his hand;
-    That band, in mighty deeds of arms renown’d,
-    With valour arm’d, as yet with victory crown’d,--
-    The sons of conquest, and the flow’r of France,
-    Who fill’d all Europe with alarms, advance.
-
-
-XV.
-
-    Beneath a friendly vale the warriors pause,
-    And thus began the chieftain of their cause:--
-    “Friends, countrymen! the battle’s dubious fate,
-    The fate of Europe, on your arms await;
-    Should victory crown our efforts, then no more                   320
-    Shall war destructive waste our native shore.
-    The hostile league, which now appears so fast,
-    Will break asunder, ere a day be past;
-    And Wellesley, weaken’d in the dire affray,
-    To Gallic brav’ry, falls an easy prey.
-    Think of your ancient deeds! beneath your arms,
-    Prussia, and Austria, fled with dire alarms;
-    Dejected Spain, a Gallic Monarch own’d,
-    And soft Italia mourn’d her Sire dethron’d;
-    The winds of Fame your conq’ring eagles bore,                    330
-    To climes ne’er fann’d by Victory’s wing before.
-    These were your former deeds!--disgrace, or shame,
-    Ne’er yet have soil’d your laurels, or your name.
-    But now has envious Jealousy arose,
-    To blight those laurels with unnumber’d foes;
-    And yet they say, ’tis me!--’tis me alone!
-    Your king, they wish to conquer, to dethrone!
-    Yes!--were I dead,--proud Prussia’s ruthless hand
-    Would hurl destruction on your fated land;
-    They say, they ask not to decide your choice,                    340
-    But me depos’d, to leave it to your voice.
-    Yes!--were I dead,--their haughty pow’r would place
-    Upon your throne th’ accursed Bourbon race.
-    Say, will you have the idiot-line again,
-    The mock of Europe, o’er your realms to reign?
-    No! I can see in each indignant face,
-    Your scorn, your hatred of the lawless race.
-    A people’s voice, the voice of half a world,
-    Rais’d me from whence that tyrant race was hurl’d;
-    And since that time, my reign or ill, or well,                   350
-    Let Gallia’s wealth--let Gallia’s conquest tell.
-    But on the features of each ardent face,
-    Your fire impetuous for the war I trace,--
-    Go then, my countrymen! no more restrain
-    Your native ardour from the glorious plain--
-    Go with fresh laurels still to gild your name,
-    To track the path of Honour and of Fame!--
-    Go, let your ancient conquests be surpast,
-    By this brave deed, the mightiest and the last.”
-
-
-XVI.
-
-    The hero ceas’d!--but loud applauding cries,                     360
-    “Long live our Emperor!” rend the list’ning skies;
-    From hill to hill, the deaf’ning shouts rebound,
-    And Britain’s Genius trembled at the sound!
-    E’en vengeful Prussia, thund’ring from afar,
-    Dropt the red brand, and, wond’ring, ceas’d the war.
-    Those notes so loudly, and so sternly rung,
-    That ev’ry warring rank in mute attention hung!
-    Now slowly winding o’er the devious path,
-    The pride of France, direct their ardent wrath!
-    Not one warm bosom, felt a pang of fear--                        370
-    No colder throbbing, check their bold career!
-    So gladly stern, they bend their awful way,
-    They seem’d to think their conquest sure that day.
-
-    Sudden a band of Brunswick’s sons appear,
-    High in the air, their scathing swords they rear;
-    And dare to extend the death-arousing hand,
-    ’Gainst Europe’s dread--Napoléon’s favour’d band:
-    Vain are their force!--the eye can scarce survey
-    What heaps the Gauls, exulting, swept away!
-    Again, in that dread hour, proud Victory spread                  380
-    Her ample pinions o’er Napoléon’s head;
-    In cold anxiety, he views from far,
-    Screen’d by the vale, th’ achievements of the war.
-
-    Hark! what a peal re-echoes through the skies;
-    What sudden clouds of lurid smoke arise?
-    ’Tis the hoarse sound, so fatal to the brave,
-    Red Death’s loud herald--patron of the grave!
-    Lo! what a troop of Gallia’s flow’r, who late,
-    Exulted wide, and scorn’d the rod of Fate,
-    Stretch’d upon earth, depriv’d of life and breath,               390
-    Still sternly frowning, seem to spurn at Death!
-    But as _one_ fell, _another_ quick supplied
-    The vacant place, with fierce, undaunted pride;--
-    That pride which scorns all ties, that seem to part
-    The idol Glory from the warrior’s heart!
-    E’en if a brother, son, or father die,
-    They view his slaughter with unalter’d eye;
-    Each earthly passion from their souls had flow’n,
-    Or rather seem’d absorb’d in one alone,                          399
-    To grace their much-lov’d Sov’reign’s honour’d name,
-    To live in glory, or to die in fame!
-
-
-XVII.
-
-    A band of Britons, ’neath an hollow lay,
-    Where Europe’s terror urg’d their rolling way,
-    When, close behind, great Wellesley sudden threw
-    His form rever’d, amid the warlike crew,
-    And thus indignant cries, “Till British force
-    Has backward drove the Gauls’ destructive course,
-    E’en should the hostile sabre, rear’d on high,
-    Destruction threaten, ne’er from hence I’ll fly.”
-    Of self regardless, and unknown to fear,                         410
-    Thus rush’d the hero--thus the foe’s career
-    To stop he sought; while, round his form belov’d,
-    His martial band, a matchless phalanx prov’d;
-    Hid in the shelving depth, a kindling flame,
-    Play’d round their hearts and lit the road to Fame.
-    Mean time th’ imperial guard, with dauntless might,
-    Still roll impetuous o’er the paths of fight,--
-    Unconscious where the fatal ambush lay,
-    Within its verge, they bend their destin’d way.
-    When, lo! a sudden voice amaz’d they hear,                       420
-    “Up, guards, attack! your ready guns uprear.”
-    Instant the Britons rose; the Gauls, in mute surprise,
-    Thought they perceiv’d the sons of earth arise;
-    But for surprise, or thought, not long had they,
-    Ere the loud volley swept their troops away.
-    Heaps upon heaps, that fire destructive made,
-    Drove rank on rank, and back’d the whole brigade;
-    And, whilst the wounded make attempt to rise,
-    Another volley echoes through the skies.
-
-
-XVIII.
-
-    Where now is Gallia’s boast?--far, far around,                   430
-    Their mangled corpses welter on the ground;
-    Save, where a few of that tremendous band,
-    In stern amaze, still make their wonted stand.
-    But see, the Britons, with exulting joy,
-    Bare their bright sabres, eager to destroy;
-    And, breathing vengeance, sword in hand they go,
-    To end the conquest of the wilder’d foe;
-    They, lost to reason, and the mind’s control,
-    Sunk in despair each energy of soul:
-    Some instinctively fly--some idly stand,                         440
-    Yet drop the useless weapon from the hand.
-    So fell, in one promiscuous pile of dead,
-    Proud Gallia’s glory, and all Europe’s dread!
-
-    Napoléon view’d, with piercing pangs, afar,
-    The adverse fortunes of the fatal war;
-    E’en his bright talents, and gigantic soul,
-    Which soar’d ’bove mortals, and beyond control,
-    Sunk in that hour--in that eventful day,
-    When his lov’d troops by fate were swept away;
-    Fain would he rush his raging form to throw                      450
-    Before the progress of his conq’ring foe;
-    But Bertrand, Drouët, on the Monarch hung,
-    Melted to tears, and bath’d the knees they clung--
-    “Whither, great Sire, oh, whither would’st thou fly?
-    And dost thou think that thou alone would’st die?
-    Upon _thy_ life, unnumber’d lives await--
-    On thee, depends thy native Gallia’s fate.
-    Think of thy safety, and if not thy own,
-    That of thy country, and thy infant son.
-    What, though to-day opposing Fortune low’rs,                     460
-    To-morrow’s sun may yet behold her ours!”
-    With words like these, they strive to soothe the chief,
-    Soften his anger, and allay his grief.
-    Mov’d by their prayers, that glorious chief resign’d
-    The dreadful purpose of his mighty mind.
-    Backwards one long, one lingering look he cast
-    Tow’rds the red place his band had breath’d their last,
-    Then pass’d his hand across his madd’ning brow--
-    “I follow, Bertrand, where you lead me now.”
-
-
-XIX.
-
-    Mean time fierce Blücher, with impetuous might,                  470
-    Supports the war, and claims the equal fight;
-    Hill’s conq’ring banners, midst the thickest war,
-    Dripping red carnage, glitter’d from afar;
-    His ruthless Prussians, dreadful Bulow roll’d,
-    While Uxbridge shone the boldest of the bold;
-    Exulting Fame, in shouting clamours calls,
-    And Britain’s vengeance on Napoléon falls.
-    But now the Gauls are mass’d in one vast throng,
-    And Albion’s troops, collected, sweep along.
-    On each vast squadron rush, each mighty band,                    480
-    Now charge, collected, scymitar in hand.
-    So from some rock the gushing torrents pour,
-    Burst the weak banks, and overwhelm the shore:
-    Their mighty streams in ev’ry quarter roll,
-    And sweep away, whate’er their force control.
-    What pen can tell each hero’s deathless name,
-    Who spread destruction o’er the field of Fame.
-    Let some sublimer bard’s illustrious verse,
-    Their laurel’s number, and their deeds rehearse;                 489
-    How Cooke, how Maitland, Packe, and Ferrier shone;
-    How Ellis, Somerset, and Cairnes were known;--
-    How brave Fitzgerald, through the bloody fray,
-    Spread ruin dark, and wond’ring wild dismay.
-    With many a chief, whose ever-living name
-    No voice can tell!--except the voice of Fame!
-    Nor yet shalt thou, with well-earn’d laurels bright,
-    Be sunk, O, C----t! in oblivious night,
-    In that dread day thy crest refulgent shone,
-    A youth in years, a vet’ran in renown;
-    Sprung from a sire, who rear’d our nobler youth                  500
-    To wisdom, virtue, learning, sense, and truth.
-    Nor less thy brother’s fame, where Ganges pours
-    His sacred waters through the Indian shores.
-
-
-XX.
-
-    But, lo! what daring Frenchman’s desperate force
-    Dare strive t’ oppose Britannia’s conq’ring course?
-    Alone, scarce arm’d, from ev’ry limb, and pore,
-    Dripping, a long and ghastly stream of crimson gore?
-    ’Tis Shawe’s fierce murd’rer, by his sable crest,
-    And ruby crosslet glitt’ring at his breast--
-    ’Tis dark Bernot!--the hero’s thirst of fame,                    510
-    Led his _last_ act, to consecrate his name:
-    See! in the thickest of the hostile band,
-    Wave his dark plumes, and gleam his gory brand.
-    Five chiefs he strikes--and rears to strike again--
-    Why drops his arm?--why useless on the plain
-    Falls the red blade?--why sinks his plumy crest?
-    The streams of life no longer warm his breast!
-    By drop, by drop, from many a gashing wound,
-    As he rode on, they trickled on the ground;
-    Till the last streams had floated from his side,                 520
-    And life and strength had issued on the tide.
-
-
-XXI.
-
-    Hark! hark! what means that deep and frantic yell,
-    That seems to burst the iron gates of hell?
-    ’Tis Gallia’s Genius mourns her slaughter’d host!
-    Her Empire, Sov’reign, and her Glory lost!
-    Her car triumphant, now has stopp’d its course,
-    And yields reluctant to Britannia’s force!
-    Her darling hero makes his glorious stand,
-    Her fav’rite son, the flow’r of Anglia’s band!
-    Hark! hark!--again the sounds of victory rise,                   530
-    In strains of triumph to the list’ning skies!
-    ’Tis Britain conquers--Britain gives the blow--
-    ’Tis Britain glories o’er an humbled foe!
-
-    Now all is still!--save, where the breezes bear
-    The groans of ling’ring nature to the ear.
-    Peaceful at length, extended, side by side,
-    Lay Britain’s boast, and humbled Gallia’s pride;
-    While victory all her brightest honours shed,
-    On Anglia’s warriors, and on Wellesley’s head.
-    To that great chieftain is the glory due,                        540
-    That first the haughty monarch learn’d to sue:
-    Though great _his_ might, though deathless is _his_ name,
-    Yet thou surpass’d him in the field of Fame.
-    And long, as Albion’s laurel-mantled isle
-    Shall o’er old Ocean’s conquer’d waters smile;
-    And long, as through a Briton’s veins shall roll
-    The mighty blood, that nerves a Briton’s soul;
-    That blood shall boil! that heaving soul shall rise!
-    And glory’s rapture bright the sparkling eyes!
-    When the high name of Wellesley gives to view,                   550
-    Thy deathless plains, imperial Waterloo!
-    And the glad son of him, who fought and bled
-    In that dire fray, shall rear his tow’ring head,
-    And cry, in honest pride’s exulting swell,--
-    “’Twas there my father fought, my father fell!”
-
-
-END OF CANTO II.
-
-
-
-
-NOTES
-
-ON CANTO I.
-
-
-As so many excellent works have been published, giving a full and
-accurate account of the transactions of the battle, and as they are so
-recent in the memory of all who may honour this Poem with their perusal,
-I shall be very brief and select in my Notes.
-
-
-Stanza III.
-
-    “_These hardy troops_ Napoléon’s brother _led_.”
-
-Jerome Buonaparte.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-    “_For the first time in arms confronting stand._”
-
-The Duke of Wellington had won twenty-seven battles over Napoléon’s
-generals, and was at last personally confronted with their master.
-Napoléon observed at Paris,--“that he was at last going to “measure
-swords with this Wellington, of whom he should certainly give a good
-account.”
-
-
-Stanza VI.
-
-    “_Where stood the pride of Caledonia’s force._”
-
-The Scotch Greys.
-
-
-Stanza VII.
-
-    “_And Scotia, aided by an English band._”
-
-The Bays.
-
-
-Stanza XI.
-
-    “_No modern field could ever yet behold_
-    “_A fight so slaught’rous, and a war so bold._”
-
-This was perhaps the severest engagement of cavalry ever fought on a
-modern field, and though the Greys eventually conquered by miracles of
-valour, they might well exclaim with Pyrrhus,--“Another such victory
-would ruin us.”
-
-
-Stanza XII.
-
-    “_The gallant Byng._”--General Byng.
-
-    “_While Saltoun._”--Lord Saltoun.
-
-
-Stanza XIII.
-
-    “_Th’ heroic Ponsonby._”--Sir William Ponsonby.
-
-As Sir William Ponsonby was gallopping after his impetuous regiments, he
-had to cross a field lately ploughed, and of a very soft soil, and being
-badly mounted, his horse sunk in it. At that very moment he perceived a
-troop of lancers coming at full speed, and seeing all was over, took the
-picture of his wife from his bosom, and was giving the melancholy token
-to his aid-de-camp, to bear to his family, when the lancers coming up,
-killed both of them. To make the story more poetically affecting, I have
-taken the almost unpardonable licence of altering the facts.
-
-
-Stanza XXI.
-
-    “_Melted to love before a brother’s name._”
-
-Not so by the ties of love, but friendship.
-
-
-Stanza XXIV.
-
-    “_Spite of his valour, struggles, and his strength._”
-
-This line is borrowed from the following one in Rokeby:--
-
-    “Spite of his struggles and his strength.”
-
-
-
-
-NOTES
-
-ON CANTO II.
-
-
-Stanza V.
-
-    “_As Gordon._”--Sir Alexander Gordon.
-
-    “_And glorious Canning._”--Lieut. Canning.
-
-    “_The brave Delancey._”--Sir W. Delancey.
-
-
-Stanza XXI.
-
-    “_Moved by their prayers, the_ glorious chief.”
-
-I have endeavoured throughout the whole of this Poem, to observe a
-strict impartiality between the British and French, and their
-commanders; not following the practice of some, who seem scarcely
-disposed to allow Buonaparte the character of a general; but these
-should consider, that the braver the troops, and the more experienced
-and skilful their leader, so much more is the glory of conquering them.
-
-
-_Printed by J. Brettell,
-Rupert Street, Haymarket, London._
-
-
-
-
-BOOKS PUBLISHED BY J. HATCHARD AND SON, No. 187, PICCADILLY.
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-FOOTNOTES:
-
-[1] See The Lay of the Last Minstrel.
-
-[2] See Roderick Dhu’s Sacrifice in The Lady of the Lake.
-
-[3] See the Banquet at Holyrood Palace in Marmion, &c.
-
-[4] Bulbul, is the Persian nightingale.
-
-[5] Zel, is an Eastern instrument of martial music.
-
-[6] Shich-Eidar, see Note the First.
-
-[7] Azrail, is the Angel of Death.
-
-[8] Wine is forbidden by the Mahometan religion.
-
-[9] Sir R---- ----, an ancestor of Mrs. ----, was Lord Lieutenant of
-the county of ---- in the reign of Elizabeth, and commanded the forces
-of that county at the time of the Spanish Armada.
-
-[10] Henry II.
-
-[11] Castor and Pollux.
-
-[12] Damon and Pythias.
-
-[13] David, whose friendship with Jonathan is so beautifully described
-in the Scriptures.
-
-[14] I am conscious that the metre of the following Translations is
-very different from that of the original; but it is my humble opinion,
-that it is utterly impossible to imitate the Version, and, at the same
-time, to preserve the spirit of the expression, and dignity of the
-idea; and it is really surprising that so many men of deep learning and
-judgment have attempted what was certain of failure: even Francis, who
-has done Horace more justice than any other translator, frequently,
-even in some of the sublimest odes, degenerates to a mere ballad
-singer. Were we, indeed, to make use of an irregular metre, it might,
-perhaps, be easy to translate _the beauty_, as well as _the meaning_;
-but, of all regular metres, I think our heroic is by far the best
-adapted for the grander odes.
-
-[15] For this poem the Author must crave peculiar indulgence; it was
-written at the desire of a lady, who asked him for his opinion of our
-living poets in verse, and was completed in a _very short_ space of
-time, so that there are necessarily many faults in it: it would not,
-however, have been inserted, were it not for the particular wish of the
-lady for whom it was written.
-
-[16] The gardens of Adonis.
-
-[17] Æschylus, who may, I think, be called the Father of Tragedy,
-although Thespis was the first inventor of it.
-
-    Ignotum Tragicæ genus invenisse Camænæ,
-    Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poëmata Thespis,
-    Quæ canerent agerentque peruncti fæcibus ora.
-    Post hunc, personæ pallæque repertor honestæ
-    Æschylus, et modicis instravit pulpita tignis,
-    Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno.”--_Hor._
-
-
-[18] The nightingale is said to be particularly and faithfully attached
-to the rose tree.
-
-[19] Ponsonby is generally called the chieftain, or leader, throughout
-the whole battle.
-
-[20] Chrishna, is the Apollo of the Hindoo Mythology, and his smile is
-supposed to have been so bright as to have diffused an halo around his
-whole face.
-
-[21]
-
-    “The _griding_ sword with discontinuous wound
-    “Pass’d through him:----”
-                   _Milton_.
-
-
-[22]
-
-    “Through flames of sulphur and a night of smoke.”
-                     _Addison’s Campaign_.
-
-
-[23] Shawe.
-
-
-
-
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