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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 + + +Title: Poems + +Author: Victor Hugo + + +Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8775] +This file was first posted on August 12, 2003 +Last Updated: May 5, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Text file produced by Stan Goodman and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + POEMS + </h1> + <h2> + By Victor Hugo + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1888 + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_TOC"> ORIGINAL TABLE OF CONTENTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> MEMOIR OF VICTOR MARIE HUGO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>EARLY POEMS</b>. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ENVY AND AVARICE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ODES.—1818-28. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> KING LOUIS XVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE FEAST OF FREEDOM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> TO YE KINGS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> GENIUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE GIRL OF OTAHEITE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> NERO'S INCENDIARY SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> REGRET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> THE MORNING OF LIFE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> BELOVED NAME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> <b>BALLADES</b>.—1823-28. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> THE GRANDMOTHER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> THE GIANT IN GLEE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> THE CYMBALEER'S BRIDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> BATTLE OF THE NORSEMEN AND THE GAELS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> MADELAINE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE FAY AND THE PERI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> THE PERI. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> <b>LES ORIENTALES</b>.—1829. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE SCOURGE OF HEAVEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> PIRATES' SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> THE TURKISH CAPTIVE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> MOONLIGHT ON THE BOSPHORUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE VEIL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> THE SISTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> THE FAVORITE SULTANA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> THE PASHA AND THE DERVISH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> THE LOST BATTLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> THE GREEK BOY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> ZARA, THE BATHER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> EXPECTATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> THE LOVER'S WISH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> THE SACKING OF THE CITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> NOORMAHAL THE FAIR.{1} </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> THE DJINNS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> THE OBDURATE BEAUTY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> DON RODRIGO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> CORNFLOWERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> MAZEPPA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> THE DANUBE IN WRATH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> OLD OCEAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> MY NAPOLEON. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> <b>LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE</b>.—1831. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> THE PATIENCE OF THE PEOPLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> DICTATED BEFORE THE RHONE GLACIER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> THE POET'S LOVE FOR LIVELINESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> INFANTILE INFLUENCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> THE WATCHING ANGEL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> SUNSET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> II. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> <b>LES CHANTS DU CRÉPUSCULE</b>.—1849. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> PRELUDE TO "THE SONGS OF TWILIGHT." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> THE LAND OF FABLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> TRIBUTE TO THE VANQUISHED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> ANGEL OR DEMON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> MARRIAGE AND FEASTS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> THE MORROW OF GRANDEUR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> THE EAGLET MOURNED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> INVOCATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> OUTSIDE THE BALL-ROOM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> PRAYER FOR FRANCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> TO CANARIS, THE GREEK PATRIOT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> POLAND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> INSULT NOT THE FALLEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> MORNING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> SONG OF LOVE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> SWEET CHARMER.{1} </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> MORE STRONG THAN TIME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> ROSES AND BUTTERFLIES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> THE POET TO HIS WIFE. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> <b>LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES</b>.—1840. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> THE BLINDED BOURBONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> TO ALBERT DÜRER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> TO HIS MUSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> THE COW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> MOTHERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> TO SOME BIRDS FLOWN AWAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> MY THOUGHTS OF YE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> THE BEACON IN THE STORM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> LOVE'S TREACHEROUS POOL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> THE ROSE AND THE GRAVE. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> <b>LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES</b>.—1840. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> HOLYROOD PALACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> THE HUMBLE HOME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> STILL BE A CHILD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> THE POOL AND THE SOUL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> YE MARINERS WHO SPREAD YOUR SAILS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0096"> ON A FLEMISH WINDOW-PANE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> THE PRECEPTOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> GASTIBELZA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> GUITAR SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> COME WHEN I SLEEP. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> EARLY LOVE REVISITED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> SWEET MEMORY OF LOVE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> THE MARBLE FAUN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0104"> BABY'S SEASIDE GRAVE. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> <b>LES CHÂTIMENTS</b>.—1853. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> INDIGNATION! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> IMPERIAL REVELS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> POOR LITTLE CHILDREN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0109"> APOSTROPHE TO NATURE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> NAPOLEON "THE LITTLE." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> FACT OR FABLE? </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> NO ASSASSINATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> THE DESPATCH OF THE DOOM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> THE SEAMAN'S SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> THE OCEAN'S SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> THE TRUMPETS OF THE MIND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> AFTER THE COUP D'ÊTAT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> PATRIA.{1} </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> THE UNIVERSAL REPUBLIC. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0121"> <b>LES CONTEMPLATIONS</b>.—1830-56. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0122"> THE VALE TO YOU, TO ME THE HEIGHTS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0123"> CHILDHOOD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0124"> SATIRE ON THE EARTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0125"> HOW BUTTERFLIES ARE BORN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0126"> HAVE YOU NOTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF? </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0127"> INSCRIPTION FOR A CRUCIFIX.{1} </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0128"> DEATH, IN LIFE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0129"> THE DYING CHILD TO ITS MOTHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0130"> EPITAPH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0131"> ST. JOHN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0132"> THE POET'S SIMPLE FAITH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0133"> <b>LA LÉGENDE DES SIÈCLES</b>. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0134"> CAIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0135"> BOAZ ASLEEP. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0136"> SONG OF THE GERMAN LANZKNECHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0137"> KING CANUTE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0138"> II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0139"> THE BOY-KING'S PRAYER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0140"> EVIRADNUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0141"> THE SOUDAN, THE SPHINXES, THE CUP, THE LAMP. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0142"> SEA-ADVENTURERS' SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0143"> THE SWISS MERCENARIES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0144"> THE CUP ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0145"> HOW GOOD ARE THE POOR. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0146"> <b>LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY</b>. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0147"> MENTANA. {1} </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0148"> <b>LES CHANSONS DES RUES ET DES BOIS</b>. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0149"> LOVE OF THE WOODLAND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0150"> SHOOTING STARS. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2Hterrible"> <b>L'ANNÉE TERRIBLE</b>. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0151"> TO LITTLE JEANNE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0152"> TO A SICK CHILD DURING THE SIEGE OF PARIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0153"> THE CARRIER PIGEON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0154"> TOYS AND TRAGEDY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0155"> MOURNING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0156"> THE LESSON OF THE PATRIOT DEAD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0157"> THE BOY ON THE BARRICADE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0158"> TO HIS ORPHAN GRANDCHILDREN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0159"> TO THE CANNON "VICTOR HUGO." </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2Hart"> <b>L'ART D'ÊTRE GRANDPÈRE</b>. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0160"> THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0161"> THE EPIC OF THE LION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0162"> LES QUATRE VENTS DE L'ESPRIT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0163"> ON HEARING THE PRINCESS ROYAL{1} SING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0164"> MY HAPPIEST DREAM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0165"> AN OLD-TIME LAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0166"> JERSEY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0167"> THEN, MOST, I SMILE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0168"> THE EXILE'S DESIRE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0169"> THE REFUGEE'S HAVEN. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0170"> <b>VARIOUS PIECES</b>. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0171"> TO THE NAPOLEON COLUMN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0172"> CHARITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0173"> SWEET SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0174"> THE PITY OF THE ANGELS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0175"> THE SOWER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0176"> OH, WHY NOT BE HAPPY?{1} </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0177"> FREEDOM AND THE WORLD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0178"> SERENADE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0179"> AN AUTUMNAL SIMILE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0180"> TO CRUEL OCEAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0181"> ESMERALDA IN PRISON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0182"> LOVER'S SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0183"> LORD ROCHESTER'S SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0184"> THE BEGGAR'S QUATRAIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0185"> THE QUIET RURAL CHURCH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0186"> <b>DRAMATIC PIECES</b>. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0187"> THE FATHER'S CURSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0188"> PATERNAL LOVE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0189"> THE DEGENERATE GALLANTS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0190"> THE OLD AND THE YOUNG BRIDEGROOM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0191"> THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0192"> THE LOVER'S SACRIFICE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0193"> THE OLD MAN'S LOVE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0194"> THE ROLL OF THE DE SILVA RACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0195"> THE LOVERS' COLLOQUY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0196"> CROMWELL AND THE CROWN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0197"> MILTON'S APPEAL TO CROMWELL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0198"> FIRST LOVE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0199"> THE FIRST BLACK FLAG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0200"> THE SON IN OLD AGE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0201"> THE EMPEROR'S RETURN. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONTENTS. + </h2> + <p> + Memoir of Victor Marie Hugo <br /> + </p> + <p> + EARLY POEMS. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Moses on the Nile—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + Envy and Avarice—<i>American Keepsake</i> +</pre> + <p> + ODES.—1818-28. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + King Louis XVII—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + The Feast of Freedom—<i>"Father Prout" (F.S. Mahony)</i> + Genius—<i>Mrs. Torre Hulme</i> + The Girl of Otaheite—<i>Clement Scott</i> + Nero's Incendiary Song—<i>H.J. Williams</i> + Regret—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + The Morning of Life + Beloved Name—<i>Caroline Bowles (Mrs. Southey)</i> + The Portrait of a Child—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + BALLADES.—1823-28. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Grandmother—<i>"Father Prout" (F.S. Mahony)</i> + The Giant in Glee—<i>Foreign Quart. Rev. (adapted)</i> + The Cymbaleer's Bride—<i>"Father Prout" (F.S. Mahony)</i> + Battle of the Norsemen and the Gaels + Madelaine + The Fay and the Peri—<i>Asiatic Journal</i> +</pre> + <p> + LES ORIENTALES.—1829 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Scourge of Heaven—<i>I.N. Fazakerley</i> + Pirates' Song + The Turkish Captive—<i>W.D., Tait's Edisiburgh Mag.</i> + Moonlight on the Bosphorus—<i>John L. O'Sullivan</i> + The Veil—<i>"Father Prout" (F.S. Mahony)</i> + The Favorite Sultana + The Pasha and the Dervish + The Lost Battle—<i>W.D., Bentley's Miscel</i>., 1839 + The Greek Boy + Zara, the Bather—<i>John L. O'Sullivan</i> + Expectation—<i>John L. O'Sullivan </i> + The Lover's Wish—<i>V., Eton Observer</i> + The Sacking of the City—<i>John L. O'Sullivan</i> + Noormahal the Fair + The Djinns—<i>John L. O'Sullivan</i> + The Obdurate Beauty—<i>John L. O'Sullivan</i> + Don Rodrigo + Cornflowers—<i>H.L. Williams</i> + Mazeppa—<i>H.L. Williams</i> + The Danube in Wrath—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + Old Ocean—<i>R.C. Ellwood</i> + My Napoleon—<i>H.L. Williams</i> +</pre> + <p> + LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE.—1831. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Patience of the People—<i>G.W.M. Reynolds</i> + Dictated before the Rhone Glacier—<i>Author of "Critical Essays"</i> + The Poet's Love for Liveliness—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + Infantile Influence—<i>Henry Highton, M.A.</i> + The Watching Angel—<i>Foreign Quarterly Review</i> + Sunset—<i>Toru Dutt</i> + The Universal Prayer—<i>Henry Highton, M.A.</i> + The Universal Prayer—<i>C., Tait's Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + LES CHANTS DU CRÉPUSCULE.—1849. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Prelude to "The Songs of Twilight"—<i>G.W.M. Reynolds</i> + The Land of Fable—<i>G.W.M. Rrynolds</i> + The Three Glorious Days—<i>Elizabeth Collins</i> + Tribute to the Vanquished—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + Angel or Demon—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + The Eruption of Vesuvius—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + Marriage and Feasts—<i>G.W.M. Reynolds</i> + The Morrow of Grandeur—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + The Eaglet Mourned—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + Invocation—<i>G.W.M. Reynolds</i> + Outside the Ball-room—<i>G.W.M. Reynolds</i> + Prayer for France—<i>J.S. Macrae</i> + To Canaris, the Greek Patriot—<i>G.W.M. Reynolds</i> + Poland—<i>G.W.M. Reynolds</i> + Insult not the Fallen—<i>W.C.K. Wilde</i> + Morning—<i>W.M. Hardinge</i> + Song of Love—<i>Toru Dutt</i> + Sweet Charmer—<i>H.B. Farnie</i> + More Strong than Time—<i>A. Lang</i> + Roses and Butterflies—<i>W.C. Westbrook</i> + A Simile—<i>Fanny Kemble-Butler</i> + The Poet to his Wife +</pre> + <p> + LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES.—1840. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Blinded Bourbons—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + To Albert Dürer—<i>Mrs. Newton Crosland</i> + To his Muse—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + The Cow—<i>Toru Dutt</i> + Mothers—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + To some Birds Flown away—<i>Mrs. Newton Crosland</i> + My Thoughts of Ye—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + The Beacon in the Storm + Love's Treacherous Pool + The Rose and the Grave—<i>A. Lang</i> +</pre> + <p> + LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES.—1840. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Holyrood Palace—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + The Humble Home—<i>Author of "Critical Essays"</i> + The Eighteenth Century—<i>Author of "Critical Essays"</i> + Still be a Child—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + The Pool and the Soul—<i>R.F. Hodgson</i> + Ye Mariners who Spread your Sails—<i>Author of "Critical Essays"</i> + On a Flemish Window-Pane—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + The Preceptor—<i>E.E. Frewer</i> + Gastibelza—<i>H.L. Williams</i> + Guitar Song—<i>Evelyn Jerrold</i> + Come when I Sleep—<i>Wm. W. Tomlinson</i> + Early Love Revisited—<i>Author of "Critical Essays"</i> + Sweet Memory of Love—<i>Author of "Critical Essays"</i> + The Marble Faun—<i>William Young</i> + A Love for Winged Things + Baby's Seaside Grave +</pre> + <p> + LES CHÂTIMENTS.—1853. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Indignation! + Imperial Revels—<i>H.L.W.</i> + Poor Little Children + Apostrophe to Nature + Napoleon "The Little" + Fact or Fable—<i>H.L.W.</i> + A Lament—<i>Edwin Arnold, C.S.I.</i> + No Assassination + The Despatch of the Doom + The Seaman's Song + The Retreat from Moscow—<i>Toru Dutt</i> + The Ocean's Song—<i>Toru Dutt</i> + The Trumpets of the Mind—<i>Toru Dutt</i> + After the Coup d'État—<i>Toru Dutt</i> + Patria + The Universal Republic +</pre> + <p> + LES CONTEMPLATIONS.—1830-56. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Vale to You, to Me the Heights—<i>H.L.W</i> + Childhood—<i>Nelson R. Tyerman</i> + Satire on the Earth + How Butterflies are Born—<i>A. Lang</i> + Have You Nothing to Say for Yourself?—<i>C.H. Kenny</i> + Inscription for a Crucifix + Death, in Life + The Dying Child to its Mother—<i>Bp. Alexander</i> + Epitaph—<i>Nelson R. Tyerman</i> + St. John—<i>Nelson R. Tyerman</i> + The Poet's Simple Faith—<i>Prof. E. Dowden</i> + I am Content +</pre> + <p> + LA LÉGENDE DES SIÈCLES. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cain—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + Boaz Asleep—<i>Bp. Alexander</i> + Song of the German Lanzknecht—<i>H.L.W.</i> + King Canute—<i>R. Garnett</i> + King Canute—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + The Boy-King's Prayer—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + Eviradnus—<i>Mrs. Newton Crosland</i> + The Soudan, the Sphinxes, the Cup, the Lamp—<i>Bp. Alexander</i> + A Queen Five Summers Old—<i>Bp. Alexander</i> + Sea Adventurers' Song + The Swiss Mercenaries—<i>Bp. Alexander</i> + The Cup on the Battle-Field—<i>Toru Dutt</i> + How Good are the Poor—<i>Bp. Alexander</i> +</pre> + <p> + LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mentana—<i>Edwin Arnold, C.S.I.</i> +</pre> + <p> + LES CHANSONS DES RUES ET DES BOIS. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Love of the Woodland + Shooting Stars +</pre> + <p> + L'ANNÉE TERRIBLE. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To Little Jeanne—<i>Marwaod Tucker</i> + To a Sick Child during the Siege of Paris—<i>Lucy H. Hooper</i> + The Carrier Pigeon + Toys and Tragedy + Mourning—<i>Marwood Tucker</i> + The Lesson of the Patriot Dead—<i>H.L.W.</i> + The Boy on the Barricade—<i>H.L.W.</i> + To His Orphan Grandchildren—<i>Marwood Tucker</i> + To the Cannon "Victor Hugo" +</pre> + <p> + L'ART D'ÊTRE GRANDPÈRE. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Children of the Poor—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + The Epic of the Lion—<i>Edwin Arnold, C.S.I.</i> +</pre> + <p> + LES QUATRE VENTS DE L'ESPRIT. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On Hearing the Princess Royal Sing—<i>Nelson R. Tyerman</i> + My Happiest Dream + An Old-Time Lay + Jersey + Then, most, I Smile + The Exile's Desire + The Refugee's Haven +</pre> + <p> + VARIOUS PIECES. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the Napoleon Column—<i>Author of "Critical Essays"</i> + Charity—<i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + Sweet Sister—<i>Mrs. B. Somers</i> + The Pity of the Angels + The Sower—<i>Toru Dutt</i> + Oh, Why not be Happy?—<i>Leopold Wray</i> + Freedom and the World + Serenade—<i>Henry F. Chorley</i> + An Autumnal Simile + To Cruel Ocean + Esmeralda in Prison + Lover's Song—<i>Ernest Oswald Coe</i> + A Fleeting Glimpse of a Village—<i>Fraser's Magazine</i> + Lord Rochester's Song + The Beggar's Quatrain—<i>H.L.C., London Society</i> + The Quiet Rural Church + A Storm Simile +</pre> + <p> + DRAMATIC PIECES. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Father's Curse—<i>Fredk. L. Slous</i> + Paternal Love—<i>Fanny Kemble-Butler</i> + The Degenerate Gallants—<i>Lord F. Leveson Gower</i> + The Old and the Young Bridegroom—<i>Charles Sherry</i> + The Spanish Lady's Love—<i>C. Moir</i> + The Lover's Sacrifice—<i>Lord F. Leveson Gower</i> + The Old Man's Love—<i>C. Moir</i> + The Roll of the De Silva Race—<i>Lord F. Leveson Gower</i> + The Lover's Colloquy—<i>Lord F. Leveson Gower</i> + Cromwell and the Crown—<i>Leitch Ritchie</i> + Milton's Appeal to Cromwell + First Love—<i>Fanny Kemble-Butler</i> + The First Black Flag—<i>Democratic Review</i> + The Son in Old Age—<i>Foreign Quarterly Review</i> + The Emperor's Return—<i>Athenaum</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MEMOIR OF VICTOR MARIE HUGO. + </h2> + <p> + Towards the close of the First French Revolution, Joseph Leopold Sigisbert + Hugo, son of a joiner at Nancy, and an officer risen from the ranks in the + Republican army, married Sophie Trébuchet, daughter of a Nantes fitter-out + of privateers, a Vendean royalist and devotee. + </p> + <p> + Victor Marie Hugo, their second son, was born on the 26th of February, + 1802, at Besançon, France. Though a weakling, he was carried, with his + boy-brothers, in the train of their father through the south of France, in + pursuit of Fra Diavolo, the Italian brigand, and finally into Spain. + </p> + <p> + Colonel Hugo had become General, and there, besides being governor over + three provinces, was Lord High Steward at King Joseph's court, where his + eldest son Abel was installed as page. The other two were educated for + similar posts among hostile young Spaniards under stern priestly tutors in + the Nobles' College at Madrid, a palace become a monastery. Upon the + English advance to free Spain of the invaders, the general and Abel + remained at bay, whilst the mother and children hastened to Paris. + </p> + <p> + Again, in a house once a convent, Victor and his brother Eugène were + taught by priests until, by the accident of their roof sheltering a + comrade of their father's, a change of tutor was afforded them. This was + General Lahorie, a man of superior education, main supporter of Malet in + his daring plot to take the government into the Republicans' hands during + the absence of Napoleon I. in Russia. Lahorie read old French and Latin + with Victor till the police scented him out and led him to execution, + October, 1812. + </p> + <p> + School claimed the young Hugos after this tragical episode, where they + were oddities among the humdrum tradesmen's sons. Victor, thoughtful and + taciturn, rhymed profusely in tragedies, "printing" in his books, + "Châteaubriand or nothing!" and engaging his more animated brother to + flourish the Cid's sword and roar the tyrant's speeches. + </p> + <p> + In 1814, both suffered a sympathetic anxiety as their father held out at + Thionville against the Allies, finally repulsing them by a sortie. This + was pure loyalty to the fallen Bonaparte, for Hugo had lost his all in + Spain, his very savings having been sunk in real estate, through King + Joseph's insistence on his adherents investing to prove they had "come to + stay." + </p> + <p> + The Bourbons enthroned anew, General Hugo received, less for his + neutrality than thanks to his wife's piety and loyalty, confirmation of + his title and rank, and, moreover, a fieldmarshalship. Abel was accepted + as a page, too, but there was no money awarded the ex-Bonapartist—money + being what the Eaglet at Reichstadt most required for an attempt at his + father's throne—and the poor officer was left in seclusion to write + consolingly about his campaigns and "Defences of Fortified Towns." + </p> + <p> + Decidedly the pen had superseded the sword, for Victor and Eugène were + scribbling away in ephemeral political sheets as apprenticeship to + founding a periodical of their own. + </p> + <p> + Victor's poetry became remarkable in <i>La Muse Française</i> and <i>Le + Conservateur Littéraire</i>, the odes being permeated with Legitimist and + anti-revolutionary sentiments delightful to the taste of Madam Hugo, + member as she was of the courtly Order of the Royal Lily. + </p> + <p> + In 1817, the French Academy honorably mentioned Victor's "Odes on the + Advantages of Study," with a misgiving that some elder hand was masked + under the line ascribing "scant fifteen years" to the author. At the + Toulouse Floral Games he won prizes two years successively. His critical + judgment was sound as well, for he had divined the powers of Lamartine. + </p> + <p> + His "Odes," collected in a volume, gave his ever-active mother her + opportunity at Court. Louis XVIII. granted the boy-poet a pension of 1,500 + francs. + </p> + <p> + It was the windfall for which the youth had been waiting to enable him to + gratify his first love. In his childhood, his father and one M. Foucher, + head of a War Office Department, had jokingly betrothed a son of the one + to a daughter of the other. Abel had loftier views than alliance with a + civil servant's child; Eugène was in love elsewhere; but Victor had fallen + enamored with Adèle Foucher. It is true, when poverty beclouded the Hugos, + the Fouchers had shrunk into their mantle of dignity, and the girl had + been strictly forbidden to correspond with her child-sweetheart. + </p> + <p> + He, finding letters barred out, wrote a love story ("Hans of Iceland") in + two weeks, where were recited his hopes, fears, and constancy, and this + book she could read. + </p> + <p> + It pleased the public no less, and its sale, together with that of the + "Odes" and a West Indian romance, "Buck Jargal," together with a royal + pension, emboldened the poet to renew his love-suit. To refuse the + recipient of court funds was not possible to a public functionary. M. + Foucher consented to the betrothal in the summer of 1821. + </p> + <p> + So encloistered had Mdlle. Adèle been, her reading "Hans" the exceptional + intrusion, that she only learnt on meeting her affianced that he was + mourning his mother. In October, 1822, they were wed, the bride nineteen, + the bridegroom but one year the elder. The dinner was marred by the + sinister disaster of Eugène Hugo going mad. (He died in an asylum five + years later.) The author terminated his wedding year with the "Ode to + Louis XVIII.," read to a society after the President of the Academy had + introduced him as "the most promising of our young lyrists." + </p> + <p> + In spite of new poems revealing a Napoleonic bias, Victor was invited to + see Charles X. consecrated at Rheims, 29th of May, 1825, and was entered + on the roll of the Legion of Honor repaying the favors with the verses + expected. But though a son was born to him he was not restored to + Conservatism; with his mother's death all that had vanished. His tragedy + of "Cromwell" broke lances upon Royalists and upholders of the still + reigning style of tragedy. The second collection of "Odes" preluding it, + showed the spirit of the son of Napoleon's general, rather than of the + Bourbonist field-marshal. On the occasion, too, of the Duke of Tarento + being announced at the Austrian Ambassador's ball, February, 1827, as + plain "Marshal Macdonald," Victor became the mouthpiece of indignant + Bonapartists in his "Ode to the Napoleon Column" in the Place Vendôme. + </p> + <p> + His "Orientales," though written in a Parisian suburb by one who had not + travelled, appealed for Grecian liberty, and depicted sultans and pashas + as tyrants, many a line being deemed applicable to personages nearer the + Seine than Stamboul. + </p> + <p> + "Cromwell" was not actable, and "Amy Robsart," in collaboration with his + brother-in-law, Foucher, miserably failed, notwithstanding a finale + "superior to Scott's 'Kenilworth.'" In one twelvemonth, there was this + failure to record, the death of his father from apoplexy at his eldest + son's marriage, and the birth of a second son to Victor towards the close. + </p> + <p> + Still imprudent, the young father again irritated the court with satire in + "Marion Delorme" and "Hernani," two plays immediately suppressed by the + Censure, all the more active as the Revolution of July, 1830, was surely + seething up to the edge of the crater. + </p> + <p> + (At this juncture, the poet Châteaubriand, fading star to our rising sun, + yielded up to him formally "his place at the poets' table.") + </p> + <p> + In the summer of 1831, a civil ceremony was performed over the insurgents + killed in the previous year, and Hugo was constituted poet-laureate of the + Revolution by having his hymn sung in the Pantheon over the biers. + </p> + <p> + Under Louis Philippe, "Marion Delorme" could be played, but livelier + attention was turned to "Nôtre Dame de Paris," the historical romance in + which Hugo vied with Sir Walter. It was to have been followed by others, + but the publisher unfortunately secured a contract to monopolize all the + new novelist's prose fictions for a term of years, and the author revenged + himself by publishing poems and plays alone. Hence "Nôtre Dame" long stood + unique: it was translated in all languages, and plays and operas were + founded on it. Heine professed to see in the prominence of the hunchback a + personal appeal of the author, who was slightly deformed by one shoulder + being a trifle higher than the other; this malicious suggestion reposed + also on the fact that the <i>quasi</i>-hero of "Le Roi s'Amuse" (1832, a + tragedy suppressed after one representation, for its reflections on + royalty), was also a contorted piece of humanity. This play was followed + by "Lucrezia Borgia," "Marie Tudor," and "Angelo," written in a singular + poetic prose. Spite of bald translations, their action was sufficiently + dramatic to make them successes, and even still enduring on our stage. + They have all been arranged as operas, whilst Hugo himself, to oblige the + father of Louise Bertin, a magazine publisher of note, wrote "Esmeralda" + for her music in 1835. + </p> + <p> + Thus, at 1837, when he was promoted to an officership in the Legion of + Honor, it was acknowledged his due as a laborious worker in all fields of + literature, however contestable the merits and tendencies of his essays. + </p> + <p> + In 1839, the Academy, having rejected him several times, elected him among + the Forty Immortals. In the previous year had been successfully acted "Ruy + Blas," for which play he had gone to Spanish sources; with and after the + then imperative Rhine tour, came an unendurable "trilogy," the + "Burgraves," played one long, long night in 1843. A real tragedy was to + mark that year: his daughter Léopoldine being drowned in the Seine with + her husband, who would not save himself when he found that her death-grasp + on the sinking boat was not to be loosed. + </p> + <p> + For distraction, Hugo plunged into politics. A peer in 1845, he sat + between Marshal Soult and Pontécoulant, the regicide-judge of Louis XVI. + His maiden speech bore upon artistic copyright; but he rapidly became a + power in much graver matters. + </p> + <p> + As fate would have it, his speech on the Bonapartes induced King Louis + Philippe to allow Prince Louis Napoleon Bonaparte to return, and, there + being no gratitude in politics, the emancipated outlaw rose as a rival + candidate for the Presidency, for which Hugo had nominated himself in his + newspaper the <i>Evènement</i>. The story of the <i>Coup d'État</i> is + well known; for the Republican's side, read Hugo's own "History of a + Crime." Hugo, proscribed, betook himself to Brussels, London, and the + Channel Islands, waiting to "return with right when the usurper should be + expelled." + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, he satirized the Third Napoleon and his congeners with + ceaseless shafts, the principal being the famous "Napoleon the Little," + based on the analogical reasoning that as the earth has moons, the lion + the jackal, man himself his simian double, a minor Napoleon was inevitable + as a standard of estimation, the grain by which a pyramid is measured. + These flings were collected in "Les Châtiments," a volume preceded by "Les + Contemplations" (mostly written in the '40's), and followed by "Les + Chansons des Rues et des Bois." + </p> + <p> + The baffled publisher's close-time having expired, or, at least, his heirs + being satisfied, three novels appeared, long heralded: in 1862, "Les + Misérables" (Ye Wretched), wherein the author figures as Marius and his + father as the Bonapartist officer: in 1866, "Les Travailleurs de la Mer" + (Toilers of the Sea), its scene among the Channel Islands; and, in 1868, + "L'Homme Qui Rit" (The Man who Grins), unfortunately laid in a fanciful + England evolved from recondite reading through foreign spectacles. Whilst + writing the final chapters, Hugo's wife died; and, as he had refused the + Amnesty, he could only escort her remains to the Belgian frontier, August, + 1868. All this while, in his Paris daily newspaper, <i>Le Rappei</i> + (adorned with cuts of a Revolutionary drummer beating "to arms!"), he and + his sons and son-in-law's family were reiterating blows at the throne. + When it came down in 1870, and the Republic was proclaimed, Hugo hastened + to Paris. + </p> + <p> + His poems, written during the War and Siege, collected under the title of + "L'Année Terrible" (The Terrible Year, 1870-71), betray the long-tried + exile, "almost alone in his gloom," after the death of his son Charles and + his child. Fleeing to Brussels after the Commune, he nevertheless was so + aggressive in sheltering and aiding its fugitives, that he was banished + the kingdom, lest there should be a renewal of an assault on his house by + the mob, supposed by his adherents to be, not "the honest Belgians," but + the refugee Bonapartists and Royalists, who had not cared to fight for + France in France endangered. Resting in Luxemburg, he prepared "L'Année + Terrible" for the press, and thence returned to Paris, vainly to plead + with President Thiers for the captured Communists' lives, and vainly, too, + proposing himself for election to the new House. + </p> + <p> + In 1872, his novel of "'93" pleased the general public here, mainly by the + adventures of three charming little children during the prevalence of an + internecine war. These phases of a bounteously paternal mood reappeared in + "L'Art d'être Grandpère," published in 1877, when he had become a + life-senator. + </p> + <p> + "Hernani" was in the regular "stock" of the Théâtre Français, "Rigoletto" + (Le Roi s'Amuse) always at the Italian opera-house, while the same + subject, under the title of "The Fool's Revenge," held, as it still holds, + a high position on the Anglo-American stage. Finally, the poetic romance + of "Torquemada," for over thirty years promised, came forth in 1882, to + prove that the wizard-wand had not lost its cunning. + </p> + <p> + After dolor, fêtes were come: on one birthday they crown his bust in the + chief theatre; on another, all notable Paris parades under his window, + where he sits with his grandchildren at his knee, in the shadow of the + Triumphal Arch of Napoleon's Star. It is given to few men thus to see + their own apotheosis. + </p> + <p> + Whilst he was dying, in May, 1885, Paris was but the first mourner for all + France; and the magnificent funeral pageant which conducted the pauper's + coffin, antithetically enshrining the remains considered worthy of the + highest possible reverence and honors, from the Champs Elysées to the + Pantheon, was the more memorable from all that was foremost in French art + and letters having marched in the train, and laid a leaf or flower in the + tomb of the protégé of Châteaubriand, the brother-in-arms of Dumas, the + inspirer of Mars, Dorval, Le-maître, Rachel, and Bernhardt, and, above + all, the Nemesis of the Third Empire. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EARLY POEMS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MOSES ON THE NILE. + + <i>("Mes soeurs, l'onde est plus fraiche.")</i> + + {TO THE FLORAL GAMES, Toulouse, Feb. 10, 1820.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Sisters! the wave is freshest in the ray + Of the young morning; the reapers are asleep; + The river bank is lonely: come away! + The early murmurs of old Memphis creep + Faint on my ear; and here unseen we stray,— + Deep in the covert of the grove withdrawn, + Save by the dewy eye-glance of the dawn. + + "Within my father's palace, fair to see, + Shine all the Arts, but oh! this river side, + Pranked with gay flowers, is dearer far to me + Than gold and porphyry vases bright and wide; + How glad in heaven the song-bird carols free! + Sweeter these zephyrs float than all the showers + Of costly odors in our royal bowers. + + "The sky is pure, the sparkling stream is clear: + Unloose your zones, my maidens! and fling down + To float awhile upon these bushes near + Your blue transparent robes: take off my crown, + And take away my jealous veil; for here + To-day we shall be joyous while we lave + Our limbs amid the murmur of the wave. + + "Hasten; but through the fleecy mists of morn, + What do I see? Look ye along the stream! + Nay, timid maidens—we must not return! + Coursing along the current, it would seem + An ancient palm-tree to the deep sea borne, + That from the distant wilderness proceeds, + Downwards, to view our wondrous Pyramids. + + "But stay! if I may surely trust mine eye,— + It is the bark of Hermes, or the shell + Of Iris, wafted gently to the sighs + Of the light breeze along the rippling swell; + But no: it is a skiff where sweetly lies + An infant slumbering, and his peaceful rest + Looks as if pillowed on his mother's breast. + + "He sleeps—oh, see! his little floating bed + Swims on the mighty river's fickle flow, + A white dove's nest; and there at hazard led + By the faint winds, and wandering to and fro, + The cot comes down; beneath his quiet head + The gulfs are moving, and each threatening wave + Appears to rock the child upon a grave. + + "He wakes—ah, maids of Memphis! haste, oh, haste! + He cries! alas!—What mother could confide + Her offspring to the wild and watery waste? + He stretches out his arms, the rippling tide + Murmurs around him, where all rudely placed, + He rests but with a few frail reeds beneath, + Between such helpless innocence and death. + + "Oh! take him up! Perchance he is of those + Dark sons of Israel whom my sire proscribes; + Ah! cruel was the mandate that arose + Against most guiltless of the stranger tribes! + Poor child! my heart is yearning for his woes, + I would I were his mother; but I'll give + If not his birth, at least the claim to live." + + Thus Iphis spoke; the royal hope and pride + Of a great monarch; while her damsels nigh, + Wandered along the Nile's meandering side; + And these diminished beauties, standing by + The trembling mother; watching with eyes wide + Their graceful mistress, admired her as stood, + More lovely than the genius of the flood! + + The waters broken by her delicate feet + Receive the eager wader, as alone + By gentlest pity led, she strives to meet + The wakened babe; and, see, the prize is won! + She holds the weeping burden with a sweet + And virgin glow of pride upon her brow, + That knew no flush save modesty's till now. + + Opening with cautious hands the reedy couch, + She brought the rescued infant slowly out + Beyond the humid sands; at her approach + Her curious maidens hurried round about + To kiss the new-born brow with gentlest touch; + Greeting the child with smiles, and bending nigh + Their faces o'er his large, astonished eye! + + Haste thou who, from afar, in doubt and fear, + Dost watch, with straining eyes, the fated boy— + The loved of heaven! come like a stranger near, + And clasp young Moses with maternal joy; + Nor fear the speechless transport and the tear + Will e'er betray thy fond and hidden claim, + For Iphis knows not yet a mother's name! + + With a glad heart, and a triumphal face, + The princess to the haughty Pharaoh led + The humble infant of a hated race, + Bathed with the bitter tears a parent shed; + While loudly pealing round the holy place + Of Heaven's white Throne, the voice of angel choirs + Intoned the theme of their undying lyres! + + "No longer mourn thy pilgrimage below— + O Jacob! let thy tears no longer swell + The torrent of the Egyptian river: Lo! + Soon on the Jordan's banks thy tents shall dwell; + And Goshen shall behold thy people go + Despite the power of Egypt's law and brand, + From their sad thrall to Canaan's promised land. + + "The King of Plagues, the Chosen of Sinai, + Is he that, o'er the rushing waters driven, + A vigorous hand hath rescued for the sky; + Ye whose proud hearts disown the ways of heaven! + Attend, be humble! for its power is nigh + Israel! a cradle shall redeem thy worth— + A Cradle yet shall save the widespread earth!" + + <i>Dublin University Magazine, 1839</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ENVY AND AVARICE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("L'Avarice et l'Envie.")</i> + + {LE CONSERVATEUR LITÉRAIRE, 1820.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Envy and Avarice, one summer day, + Sauntering abroad + In quest of the abode + Of some poor wretch or fool who lived that way— + You—or myself, perhaps—I cannot say— + Along the road, scarce heeding where it tended, + Their way in sullen, sulky silence wended; + + For, though twin sisters, these two charming creatures, + Rivals in hideousness of form and features, + Wasted no love between them as they went. + Pale Avarice, + With gloating eyes, + And back and shoulders almost double bent, + Was hugging close that fatal box + For which she's ever on the watch + Some glance to catch + Suspiciously directed to its locks; + And Envy, too, no doubt with silent winking + At her green, greedy orbs, no single minute + Withdrawn from it, was hard a-thinking + Of all the shining dollars in it. + + The only words that Avarice could utter, + Her constant doom, in a low, frightened mutter, + "There's not enough, enough, yet in my store!" + While Envy, as she scanned the glittering sight, + Groaned as she gnashed her yellow teeth with spite, + "She's more than me, more, still forever more!" + + Thus, each in her own fashion, as they wandered, + Upon the coffer's precious contents pondered, + When suddenly, to their surprise, + The God Desire stood before their eyes. + Desire, that courteous deity who grants + All wishes, prayers, and wants; + Said he to the two sisters: "Beauteous ladies, + As I'm a gentleman, my task and trade is + To be the slave of your behest— + Choose therefore at your own sweet will and pleasure, + Honors or treasure! + Or in one word, whatever you'd like best. + But, let us understand each other—she + Who speaks the first, her prayer shall certainly + Receive—the other, the same boon <i>redoubled!</i>" + + Imagine how our amiable pair, + At this proposal, all so frank and fair, + Were mutually troubled! + Misers and enviers, of our human race, + Say, what would you have done in such a case? + Each of the sisters murmured, sad and low + "What boots it, oh, Desire, to me to have + Crowns, treasures, all the goods that heart can crave, + Or power divine bestow, + Since still another must have always more?" + + So each, lest she should speak before + The other, hesitating slow and long + Till the god lost all patience, held her tongue. + He was enraged, in such a way, + To be kept waiting there all day, + With two such beauties in the public road; + Scarce able to be civil even, + He wished them both—well, not in heaven. + + Envy at last the silence broke, + And smiling, with malignant sneer, + Upon her sister dear, + Who stood in expectation by, + Ever implacable and cruel, spoke + "I would be blinded of <i>one</i> eye!" + + <i>American Keepsake</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODES.—1818-28. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + KING LOUIS XVII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("En ce temps-là du ciel les portes.")</i> + + {Bk. I. v., December, 1822.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The golden gates were opened wide that day, + All through the unveiled heaven there seemed to play + Out of the Holiest of Holy, light; + And the elect beheld, crowd immortal, + A young soul, led up by young angels bright, + Stand in the starry portal. + + A fair child fleeing from the world's fierce hate, + In his blue eye the shade of sorrow sate, + His golden hair hung all dishevelled down, + On wasted cheeks that told a mournful story, + And angels twined him with the innocent's crown, + The martyr's palm of glory. + + The virgin souls that to the Lamb are near, + Called through the clouds with voices heavenly clear, + God hath prepared a glory for thy brow, + Rest in his arms, and all ye hosts that sing + His praises ever on untired string, + Chant, for a mortal comes among ye now; + Do homage—"'Tis a king." + + And the pale shadow saith to God in heaven: + "I am an orphan and no king at all; + I was a weary prisoner yestereven, + My father's murderers fed my soul with gall. + Not me, O Lord, the regal name beseems. + Last night I fell asleep in dungeon drear, + But then I saw my mother in my dreams, + Say, shall I find her here?" + + The angels said: "Thy Saviour bids thee come, + Out of an impure world He calls thee home, + From the mad earth, where horrid murder waves + Over the broken cross her impure wings, + And regicides go down among the graves, + Scenting the blood of kings." + + He cries: "Then have I finished my long life? + Are all its evils over, all its strife, + And will no cruel jailer evermore + Wake me to pain, this blissful vision o'er? + Is it no dream that nothing else remains + Of all my torments but this answered cry, + And have I had, O God, amid my chains, + The happiness to die? + + "For none can tell what cause I had to pine, + What pangs, what miseries, each day were mine; + And when I wept there was no mother near + To soothe my cries, and smile away my tear. + Poor victim of a punishment unending, + Torn like a sapling from its mother earth, + So young, I could not tell what crime impending + Had stained me from my birth. + + "Yet far off in dim memory it seems, + With all its horror mingled happy dreams, + Strange cries of glory rocked my sleeping head, + And a glad people watched beside my bed. + One day into mysterious darkness thrown, + I saw the promise of my future close; + I was a little child, left all alone, + Alas! and I had foes. + + "They cast me living in a dreary tomb, + Never mine eyes saw sunlight pierce the gloom, + Only ye, brother angels, used to sweep + Down from your heaven, and visit me in sleep. + 'Neath blood-red hands my young life withered there. + Dear Lord, the bad are miserable all, + Be not Thou deaf, like them, unto my prayer, + It is for them I call." + + The angels sang: "See heaven's high arch unfold, + Come, we will crown thee with the stars above, + Will give thee cherub-wings of blue and gold, + And thou shalt learn our ministry of love, + Shalt rock the cradle where some mother's tears + Are dropping o'er her restless little one, + Or, with thy luminous breath, in distant spheres, + Shalt kindle some cold sun." + + Ceased the full choir, all heaven was hushed to hear, + Bowed the fair face, still wet with many a tear, + In depths of space, the rolling worlds were stayed, + Whilst the Eternal in the infinite said: + + "O king, I kept thee far from human state, + Who hadst a dungeon only for thy throne, + O son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter fate, + The slavery of kings thou hast not known, + What if thy wasted arms are bleeding yet, + And wounded with the fetter's cruel trace, + No earthly diadem has ever set + A stain upon thy face. + + "Child, life and hope were with thee at thy birth, + But life soon bowed thy tender form to earth, + And hope forsook thee in thy hour of need. + Come, for thy Saviour had His pains divine; + Come, for His brow was crowned with thorns like thine, + His sceptre was a reed." + + <i>Dublin University Magazine.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FEAST OF FREEDOM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Lorsqu'à l'antique Olympe immolant l'evangile.")</i> + + {Bk. II. v., 1823.} + + {There was in Rome one antique usage as follows: On the eve of the + execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet—at the prison + gate—known as the "Free Festival."—CHATEAUBRIAND'S "Martyrs."} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO YE KINGS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old + By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold + An idolatrous cause, + Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout + Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout + Of "the People's" applause. + + On the eve of that day of their evenings the last! + At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast, + Rich, unstinted, unpriced, + That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled, + With an ignorant pity the jailers would spread + For the martyrs of Christ. + + Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline + On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine + Fill'd his cup to the brim! + Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose, + Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose, + All united for him! + + Every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse, + In profusion procured was put forth to enhance + The repast that they gave; + And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight, + Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night + The elect of the grave. + + And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain, + Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain + The bloodthirsty arena; + Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds + And who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs + Shame the restless hyena. + + They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve, + In their turn on the morrow were destined to give + To the lions their food; + For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board, + Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford, + Death administering stood. + + Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power, + But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour— + 'Tis your knell that it rings! + To the popular tiger a prey is decreed, + And the maw of Republican hunger will feed + On <i>a banquet of Kings!</i> + + "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK MAHONY) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GENIUS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (DEDICATED TO CHATEAUBRIAND.) + + {Bk. IV. vi., July, 1822.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth, + Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind, + Bears Genius—treasure of celestial birth, + Within his solitary soul enshrined. + Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure, + Like the undying vultures', will be driven + Into his noble heart, that must endure + Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven, + Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven. + + Still though his destiny on earth may be + Grief and injustice; who would not endure + With joyful calm, each proffered agony; + Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure? + What mortal feeling kindled in his soul + That clear celestial flame, so pure and high, + O'er which nor time nor death can have control, + Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly + From sufferings whose reward is Immortality? + No! though the clamors of the envious crowd + Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise + + From the dull clod, borne by an effort proud + Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities. + 'Tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread, + Reposing o'er the tempest, from that height + Sees the clouds reel and roll above our head, + While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight, + More upward soars sublime in heaven's eternal light. + + MRS. TORRE HULME +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GIRL OF OTAHEITE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("O! dis-moi, tu veux fuir?")</i> + + {Bk. IV, vii., Jan. 31, 1821.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Forget? Can I forget the scented breath + Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear; + The strange awaking from a dream of death, + The sudden thrill to find thee coming near? + Our huts were desolate, and far away + I heard thee calling me throughout the day, + No one had seen thee pass, + Trembling I came. Alas! + Can I forget? + + Once I was beautiful; my maiden charms + Died with the grief that from my bosom fell. + Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms! + Let there be no regrets and no farewell! + Here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow, + Here of thy fatherland we whispered low; + Here, music, praise, and prayer + Filled the glad summer air. + Can I forget? + + Forget? My dear old home must I forget? + And wander forth and hear my people weep, + Far from the woods where, when the sun has set, + Fearless but weary to thy arms I creep; + Far from lush flow'rets and the palm-tree's moan + I could not live. Here let me rest alone! + Go! I must follow nigh, + With thee I'm doomed to die, + Never forget! + + CLEMENT SCOTT +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NERO'S INCENDIARY SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Amis! ennui nous tue.")</i> + + {Bk. IV. xv., March, 1825.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred, + Come to the novel feast I spread, thrice-consul, Nero, lord, + The Caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony, + Who plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy. + + My joyful call should instantly bring all who love me most,— + For ne'er were seen such arch delights from Greek or Roman host; + Nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite of cynic vaunts, + Austere but lenient Seneca no "Ercles" bumper daunts; + + Nor where upon the Tiber floats Aglae in galley gay, + 'Neath Asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous array; + Nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy prefect flings + A score of slaves, their fetters wreathed, to feed grim, greedy + things. + + I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the whole town in a mass; + Upon this tower we'll take our stand to watch the 'wildered pass; + How paltry fights of men and beasts! here be my combatants,— + The Seven Hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead the dance. + + This is more meet for him who rules to drive away his stress— + He, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wilderness— + But, haste! for night is darkling—soon, the festival it brings; + Already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre wings, + + And mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling breaths; + They tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted deaths; + And 'neath caresses scorching hot the palaces decay— + Oh, that I, too, could thus caress, and burn, and blight, and slay! + + Hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes! Are those real men or ghosts? + The stillness spreads of Death abroad—down come the temple posts, + Their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with silver waves + To leap with hiss of thousand snakes where Tiber writhes and raves. + + All's lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues totter—crash! + Spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust and ash. + The victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north winds sound the horn + To goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn. + + Proud capital! farewell for e'er! these flames nought can subdue— + The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a bridge o'er hellish brew. + 'Tis Nero's whim! how good to see Rome brought the lowest down; + Yet, Queen of all the earth, give thanks for such a splendrous crown! + + When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule to thee; + That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent knee. + Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this "immortal star" + Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished—oh, how far! + + How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark! + The youth who fired Ephesus' fane falls low beneath my mark. + The pangs of people—when I sport, what matters?—See them whirl + About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl. + + Take from my brow this poor rose-crown—the flames have made it pine; + If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with Cretan wine! + I like not overmuch that red—good taste says "gild a crime?" + "To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs" is—thanks! a hint sublime! + + I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she not offer prayers + Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ?—to e'en a Jew, she dares! + Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all; + Alone I rest—except this pile, I leave no single hall. + + Yet I destroy to build anew, and Rome shall fairer shine— + But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not divine. + The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete— + And, slaves, bring in fresh roses—what odor is more sweet? + + H.L. WILLIAMS +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + REGRET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passé.")</i> + + {Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind! + Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when + We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined, + Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find + Ourselves alone again. + + Then, through the distant future's boundless space, + We seek the lost companion of our days: + "Return, return!" we cry, and lo, apace + Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place + Of that we mourn always. + + I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now, + Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "Begone! + Respect the cypress on my mournful brow, + Lost Happiness hath left regret—but <i>thou</i> + Leavest remorse, alone." + + Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire, + O friends, that in your revelry appears! + With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire, + And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre + When it is wet with tears. + + Each in his secret heart perchance doth own + Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed;— + Sufferers alike together and alone + Are we; with many a grief to others known, + How many unrevealed! + + Alas! for natural tears and simple pains, + For tender recollections, cherished long, + For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains, + We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains + Only for sport and song! + + Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace: + In vain I strove their parting to delay; + Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space, + Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face + Lightens, and fades away. + + <i>Fraser's Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MORNING OF LIFE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Le voile du matin.")</i> + + {Bk. V. viii., April, 1822.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks, + Old towers gleam white in the ray, + And already the glory so joyously seeks + The lark that's saluting the day. + + Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair, + Though, were you swept hence in the night, + From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare + At the sun rising newly as bright. + + But out of earth's trammels your soul would have flown + Where glitters Eternity's stream, + And you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown, + As sunshine disperses a dream. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BELOVED NAME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Le parfum d'un lis.")</i> + + {Bk. V. xiii.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light, + The latest murmur of departing day, + Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight, + The mystic farewell of each hour at flight, + The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay,— + + The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow + As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun; + The thrilling accent of a voice we know, + The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow, + An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run,— + + The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh, + Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame,— + The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die,— + The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie, + Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME! + + Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine, + Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound; + Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine, + The sacred word which at some hidden shrine, + The selfsame voice forever makes resound! + + O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame, + My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide, + With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim, + Shall dare to blend the <i>one</i>, the purer name, + Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,— + + Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing, + Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear; + To solemn harmonies attuned the string, + As, music show'ring from his viewless wing, + On heavenly airs some angel hovered near. + + CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Oui, ce front, ce sourire.")</i> + + {Bk. V. xxii., November, 1825.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair, + Beseem my child, who weeps and plays: + A heavenly spirit guards her ways, + From whom she stole that mixture rare. + Through all her features shining mild, + The poet sees an angel there, + The father sees a child. + + And by their flame so pure and bright, + We see how lately those sweet eyes + Have wandered down from Paradise, + And still are lingering in its light. + + All earthly things are but a shade + Through which she looks at things above, + And sees the holy Mother-maid, + Athwart her mother's glance of love. + + She seems celestial songs to hear, + And virgin souls are whispering near. + Till by her radiant smile deceived, + I say, "Young angel, lately given, + When was thy martyrdom achieved? + And what name lost thou bear in heaven?" + + <i>Dublin University Magazine</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BALLADES.—1823-28. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GRANDMOTHER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Dors-tu? mère de notre mère.")</i> + + {III., 1823.} + + "To die—to sleep."—SHAKESPEARE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Still asleep! We have been since the noon thus alone. + Oh, the hours we have ceased to number! + Wake, grandmother!—speechless say why thou art grown. + Then, thy lips are so cold!—the Madonna of stone + Is like thee in thy holy slumber. + We have watched thee in sleep, we have watched thee at prayer, + But what can now betide thee? + Like thy hours of repose all thy orisons were, + And thy lips would still murmur a blessing whene'er + Thy children stood beside thee. + + Now thine eye is unclosed, and thy forehead is bent + O'er the hearth, where ashes smoulder; + And behold, the watch-lamp will be speedily spent. + Art thou vexed? have we done aught amiss? Oh, relent! + But—parent, thy hands grow colder! + Say, with ours wilt thou let us rekindle in thine + The glow that has departed? + Wilt thou sing us some song of the days of lang syne? + Wilt thou tell us some tale, from those volumes divine, + Of the brave and noble-hearted? + + Of the dragon who, crouching in forest green glen, + Lies in wait for the unwary— + Of the maid who was freed by her knight from the den + Of the ogre, whose club was uplifted, but then + Turned aside by the wand of a fairy? + Wilt thou teach us spell-words that protect from all harm, + And thoughts of evil banish? + What goblins the sign of the cross may disarm? + What saint it is good to invoke? and what charm + Can make the demon vanish? + + Or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book, + So feared by hell and Satan; + At its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look, + At the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook, + And the hymns and the prayers in Latin. + Oft with legends of angels, who watch o'er the young, + Thy voice was wont to gladden; + Have thy lips yet no language—no wisdom thy tongue? + Oh, see! the light wavers, and sinking, bath flung + On the wall forms that sadden. + + Wake! awake! evil spirits perhaps may presume + To haunt thy holy dwelling; + Pale ghosts are, perhaps, stealing into the room— + Oh, would that the lamp were relit! with the gloom + These fearful thoughts dispelling. + Thou hast told us our parents lie sleeping beneath + The grass, in a churchyard lonely: + Now, thine eyes have no motion, thy mouth has no breath, + And thy limbs are all rigid! Oh, say, <i>Is this death</i>, + Or thy prayer or thy slumber only? + + ENVOY. + + Sad vigil they kept by that grandmother's chair, + Kind angels hovered o'er them— + And the dead-bell was tolled in the hamlet—and there, + On the following eve, knelt that innocent pair, + With the missal-book before them. + + "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY). +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GIANT IN GLEE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Ho, guerriers! je suis né dans le pays des Gaules.")</i> + + {V., March 11, 1825.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls; + O'er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like balls + Of the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathed + Ere in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed. + + Then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow,— + A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow. + He is weak, very old—he can scarcely uptear + A young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear; + + But here's to replace him!—I can toy with his axe; + As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax, + And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees. + How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze! + + I was still but a springald when, cleaving the Alps, + I brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps, + And my head, o'er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds, + Where I captured the eagles and caged them by crowds. + + There were tempests! I blew them back into their source! + And put out their lightnings! More than once in a course, + Through the ocean I went wading after the whale, + And stirred up the bottom as did never a gale. + + Fond of rambling, I hunted the shark 'long the beach, + And no osprey in ether soared out of my reach; + And the bear that I pinched 'twixt my finger and thumb, + Like the lynx and the wolf, perished harmless and dumb. + + But these pleasures of childhood have lost all their zest; + It is warfare and carnage that now I love best: + The sounds that I wish to awaken and hear + Are the cheers raised by courage, the shrieks due to fear; + + When the riot of flames, ruin, smoke, steel and blood, + Announces an army rolls along as a flood, + Which I follow, to harry the clamorous ranks, + Sharp-goading the laggards and pressing the flanks, + Till, a thresher 'mid ripest of corn, up I stand + With an oak for a flail in my unflagging hand. + + Rise the groans! rise the screams! on my feet fall vain tears + As the roar of my laughter redoubles their fears. + I am naked. At armor of steel I should joke— + True, I'm helmed—a brass pot you could draw with ten yoke. + + I look for no ladder to invade the king's hall— + I stride o'er the ramparts, and down the walls fall, + Till choked are the ditches with the stones, dead and quick, + Whilst the flagstaff I use 'midst my teeth as a pick. + + Oh, when cometh my turn to succumb like my prey, + May brave men my body snatch away from th' array + Of the crows—may they heap on the rocks till they loom + Like a mountain, befitting a colossus' tomb! + + <i>Foreign Quarterly Review (adapted)</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CYMBALEER'S BRIDE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Monseigneur le Duc de Bretagne.")</i> + + {VI., October, 1825.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My lord the Duke of Brittany + Has summoned his barons bold— + Their names make a fearful litany! + Among them you will not meet any + But men of giant mould. + + Proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep, + And steel-clad knight and peer, + Whose forts are girt with a moat cut deep— + But none excel in soldiership + My own loved cymbaleer. + + Clashing his cymbals, forth he went, + With a bold and gallant bearing; + Sure for a captain he was meant, + To judge his pride with courage blent, + And the cloth of gold he's wearing. + + But in my soul since then I feel + A fear in secret creeping; + And to my patron saint I kneel, + That she may recommend his weal + To his guardian-angel's keeping. + + I've begged our abbot Bernardine + His prayers not to relax; + And to procure him aid divine + I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine + Three pounds of virgin wax. + + Our Lady of Loretto knows + The pilgrimage I've vowed: + "To wear the scallop I propose, + If health and safety from the foes + My lover be allowed." + + No letter (fond affection's gage!) + From him could I require, + The pain of absence to assuage— + A vassal-maid can have no page, + A liegeman has no squire. + + This day will witness, with the duke's, + My cymbaleer's return: + Gladness and pride beam in my looks, + Delay my heart impatient brooks, + All meaner thoughts I spurn. + + Back from the battlefield elate + His banner brings each peer; + Come, let us see, at the ancient gate, + The martial triumph pass in state— + With the princes my cymbaleer. + + We'll have from the rampart walls a glance + Of the air his steed assumes; + His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance, + And on his head unceasing dance, + In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes! + + Be quick, my sisters! dress in haste! + Come, see him bear the bell, + With laurels decked, with true love graced, + While in his bold hands, fitly placed, + The bounding cymbals swell! + + Mark well the mantle that he'll wear, + Embroidered by his bride! + Admire his burnished helmet's glare, + O'ershadowed by the dark horsehair + That waves in jet folds wide! + + The gypsy (spiteful wench!) foretold, + With a voice like a viper hissing. + (Though I had crossed her palm with gold), + That from the ranks a spirit bold + Would be to-day found missing. + + But I have prayed so much, I trust + Her words may prove untrue; + Though in a tomb the hag accurst + Muttered: "Prepare thee for the worst!" + Whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue. + + My joy her spells shall not prevent. + Hark! I can hear the drums! + And ladies fair from silken tent + Peep forth, and every eye is bent + On the cavalcade that comes! + + Pikemen, dividing on both flanks, + Open the pageantry; + Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks, + And silk-robed barons lead the ranks— + The pink of gallantry! + + In scarfs of gold the priests admire; + The heralds on white steeds; + Armorial pride decks their attire, + Worn in remembrance of some sire + Famed for heroic deeds. + + Feared by the Paynim's dark divan, + The Templars next advance; + Then the tall halberds of Lausanne, + Foremost to stand in battle van + Against the foes of France. + + Now hail the duke, with radiant brow, + Girt with his cavaliers; + Round his triumphant banner bow + Those of his foe. Look, sisters, now! + Here come the cymbaleers! + + She spoke—with searching eye surveyed + Their ranks—then, pale, aghast, + Sunk in the crowd! Death came in aid— + 'Twas mercy to that loving maid— + <i>The cymbaleers had passed!</i> + + "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BATTLE OF THE NORSEMEN AND THE GAELS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!")</i> + + {VII., September, 1825.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey! + Ye wolves of war, make no delay! + For foemen 'neath our blades shall fall + Ere night may veil with purple pall. + The evening psalms are nearly o'er, + And priests who follow in our train + Have promised us the final gain, + And filled with faith our valiant corps. + + Let orphans weep, and widows brood! + To-morrow we shall wash the blood + Off saw-gapped sword and lances bent, + So, close the ranks and fire the tent! + And chill yon coward cavalcade + With brazen bugles blaring loud, + E'en though our chargers' neighing proud + Already has the host dismayed. + + Spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds! + On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds! + Through helmet plumes the arrows flit, + And plated breasts the pikeheads split. + The double-axe fells human oaks, + And like the thistles in the field + See bristling up (where none must yield!) + The points hewn off by sweeping strokes! + + We, heroes all, our wounds disdain; + Dismounted now, our horses slain, + Yet we advance—more courage show, + Though stricken, seek to overthrow + The victor-knights who tread in mud + The writhing slaves who bite the heel, + While on caparisons of steel + The maces thunder—cudgels thud! + + Should daggers fail hide-coats to shred, + Seize each your man and hug him dead! + Who falls unslain will only make + A mouthful to the wolves who slake + Their month-whet thirst. No captives, none! + We die or win! but should we die, + The lopped-off hand will wave on high + The broken brand to hail the sun! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MADELAINE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Ecoute-moi, Madeline.")</i> + + {IX., September, 1825.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + List to me, O Madelaine! + Now the snows have left the plain, + Which they warmly cloaked. + Come into the forest groves, + Where the notes that Echo loves + Are from horns evoked. + + Come! where Springtide, Madelaine, + Brings a sultry breath from Spain, + Giving buds their hue; + And, last night, to glad your eye, + Laid the floral marquetry, + Red and gold and blue. + + Would I were, O Madelaine, + As the lamb whose wool you train + Through your tender hands. + Would I were the bird that whirls + Round, and comes to peck your curls, + Happy in such bands. + + Were I e'en, O Madelaine, + Hermit whom the herd disdain + In his pious cell, + When your purest lips unfold + Sins which might to all be told, + As to him you tell. + + Would I were, O Madelaine, + Moth that murmurs 'gainst your pane, + Peering at your rest, + As, so like its woolly wing, + Ceasing scarce its fluttering, + Heaves and sinks your breast. + + If you seek it, Madelaine, + You may wish, and not in vain, + For a serving host, + And your splendid hall of state + Shall be envied by the great, + O'er the Jew-King's boast. + + If you name it, Madelaine, + Round your head no more you'll train + Simple marguerites, + No! the coronet of peers, + Whom the queen herself oft fears, + And the monarch greets. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If you wish, O Madelaine! + Where you gaze you long shall reign— + For I'm ruler here! + I'm the lord who asks your hand + If you do not bid me stand + Loving shepherd here! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FAY AND THE PERI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Où vas-tu donc, jeune âme.")</i> + + {XV.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PERI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beautiful spirit, come with me + Over the blue enchanted sea: + Morn and evening thou canst play + In my garden, where the breeze + Warbles through the fruity trees; + No shadow falls upon the day: + There thy mother's arms await + Her cherished infant at the gate. + Of Peris I the loveliest far— + My sisters, near the morning star, + In ever youthful bloom abide; + But pale their lustre by my side— + A silken turban wreathes my head, + Rubies on my arms are spread, + While sailing slowly through the sky, + By the uplooker's dazzled eye + Are seen my wings of purple hue, + Glittering with Elysian dew. + Whiter than a far-off sail + My form of beauty glows, + Fair as on a summer night + Dawns the sleep star's gentle light; + And fragrant as the early rose + That scents the green Arabian vale, + Soothing the pilgrim as he goes. + + THE FAY. + + Beautiful infant (said the Fay), + In the region of the sun + I dwell, where in a rich array + The clouds encircle the king of day, + His radiant journey done. + My wings, pure golden, of radiant sheen + (Painted as amorous poet's strain), + Glimmer at night, when meadows green + Sparkle with the perfumed rain + While the sun's gone to come again. + And clear my hand, as stream that flows; + And sweet my breath as air of May; + And o'er my ivory shoulders stray + Locks of sunshine;—tunes still play + From my odorous lips of rose. + + Follow, follow! I have caves + Of pearl beneath the azure waves, + And tents all woven pleasantly + In verdant glades of Faëry. + Come, belovèd child, with me, + And I will bear thee to the bowers + Where clouds are painted o'er like flowers, + And pour into thy charmed ear + Songs a mortal may not hear; + Harmonies so sweet and ripe + As no inspired shepherd's pipe + E'er breathed into Arcadian glen, + Far from the busy haunts of men. + + THE PERI. + + My home is afar in the bright Orient, + Where the sun, like a king, in his orange tent, + Reigneth for ever in gorgeous pride— + And wafting thee, princess of rich countree, + To the soft flute's lush melody, + My golden vessel will gently glide, + Kindling the water 'long the side. + + Vast cities are mine of power and delight, + Lahore laid in lilies, Golconda, Cashmere; + And Ispahan, dear to the pilgrim's sight, + And Bagdad, whose towers to heaven uprear; + Alep, that pours on the startled ear, + From its restless masts the gathering roar, + As of ocean hamm'ring at night on the shore. + + Mysore is a queen on her stately throne, + Thy white domes, Medina, gleam on the eye,— + Thy radiant kiosques with their arrowy spires, + Shooting afar their golden fires + Into the flashing sky,— + Like a forest of spears that startle the gaze + Of the enemy with the vivid blaze. + + Come there, beautiful child, with me, + Come to the arcades of Araby, + To the land of the date and the purple vine, + Where pleasure her rosy wreaths doth twine, + And gladness shall be alway thine; + Singing at sunset next thy bed, + Strewing flowers under thy head. + Beneath a verdant roof of leaves, + Arching a flow'ry carpet o'er, + Thou mayst list to lutes on summer eves + Their lays of rustic freshness pour, + While upon the grassy floor + Light footsteps, in the hour of calm, + Ruffle the shadow of the palm. + + THE FAY. + + Come to the radiant homes of the blest, + Where meadows like fountain in light are drest, + And the grottoes of verdure never decay, + And the glow of the August dies not away. + Come where the autumn winds never can sweep, + And the streams of the woodland steep thee in sleep, + Like a fond sister charming the eyes of a brother, + Or a little lass lulled on the breast of her mother. + Beautiful! beautiful! hasten to me! + Colored with crimson thy wings shall be; + Flowers that fade not thy forehead shall twine, + Over thee sunlight that sets not shall shine. + + The infant listened to the strain, + Now here, now there, its thoughts were driven— + But the Fay and the Peri waited in vain, + The soul soared above such a sensual gain— + The child rose to Heaven. + + <i>Asiatic Journal</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LES ORIENTALES.—1829. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SCOURGE OF HEAVEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Là, voyez-vous passer, la nuée.")</i> + + {I., November, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + Hast seen it pass, that cloud of darkest rim? + Now red and glorious, and now gray and dim, + Now sad as summer, barren in its heat? + One seems to see at once rush through the night + The smoke and turmoil from a burning site + Of some great town in fiery grasp complete. + + Whence comes it? From the sea, the hills, the sky? + Is it the flaming chariot from on high + Which demons to some planet seem to bring? + Oh, horror! from its wondrous centre, lo! + A furious stream of lightning seems to flow + Like a long snake uncoiling its fell ring. + + II. + + The sea! naught but the sea! waves on all sides! + Vainly the sea-bird would outstrip these tides! + Naught but an endless ebb and flow! + Wave upon wave advancing, then controlled + Beneath the depths a stream the eyes behold + Rolling in the involved abyss below! + + Whilst here and there great fishes in the spray + Their silvery fins beneath the sun display, + Or their blue tails lash up from out the surge, + Like to a flock the sea its fleece doth fling; + The horizon's edge bound by a brazen ring; + Waters and sky in mutual azure merge. + + "Am I to dry these seas?" exclaimed the cloud. + "No!" It went onward 'neath the breath of God. + + III. + + Green hills, which round a limpid bay + Reflected, bask in the clear wave! + The javelin and its buffalo prey, + The laughter and the joyous stave! + The tent, the manger! these describe + A hunting and a fishing tribe + Free as the air—their arrows fly + Swifter than lightning through the sky! + By them is breathed the purest air, + Where'er their wanderings may chance! + Children and maidens young and fair, + And warriors circling in the dance! + Upon the beach, around the fire, + Now quenched by wind, now burning higher, + Like spirits which our dreams inspire + To hover o'er our trance. + + Virgins, with skins of ebony, + Beauteous as evening skies, + Laughed as their forms they dimly see + In metal mirrors rise; + Others, as joyously as they, + Were drawing for their food by day, + With jet-black hands, white camels' whey, + Camels with docile eyes. + + Both men and women, bare, + Plunged in the briny bay. + Who knows them? Whence they were? + Where passed they yesterday? + Shrill sounds were hovering o'er, + Mixed with the ocean's roar, + Of cymbals from the shore, + And whinnying courser's neigh. + + "Is't there?" one moment asked the cloudy mass; + "Is't there?" An unknown utterance answered: "Pass!" + + IV. + + Whitened with grain see Egypt's lengthened plains, + Far as the eyesight farthest space contains, + Like a rich carpet spread their varied hues. + The cold sea north, southwards the burying sand + Dispute o'er Egypt—while the smiling land + Still mockingly their empire does refuse. + + Three marble triangles seem to pierce the sky, + And hide their basements from the curious eye. + Mountains—with waves of ashes covered o'er! + In graduated blocks of six feet square + From golden base to top, from earth to air + Their ever heightening monstrous steps they bore. + + No scorching blast could daunt the sleepless ken + Of roseate Sphinx, and god of marble green, + Which stood as guardians o'er the sacred ground. + For a great port steered vessels huge and fleet, + A giant city bathed her marble feet + In the bright waters round. + + One heard the dread simoom in distance roar, + Whilst the crushed shell upon the pebbly shore + Crackled beneath the crocodile's huge coil. + Westwards, like tiger's skin, each separate isle + Spotted the surface of the yellow Nile; + Gray obelisks shot upwards from the soil. + + The star-king set. The sea, it seemed to hold + In the calm mirror this live globe of gold, + This world, the soul and torchbearer of our own. + In the red sky, and in the purple streak, + Like friendly kings who would each other seek, + Two meeting suns were shown. + + "Shall I not stop?" exclaimed the impatient cloud. + "Seek!" trembling Tabor heard the voice of God. + + V. + + Sand, sand, and still more sand! + The desert! Fearful land! + Teeming with monsters dread + And plagues on every hand! + Here in an endless flow, + Sandhills of golden glow, + Where'er the tempests blow, + Like a great flood are spread. + Sometimes the sacred spot + Hears human sounds profane, when + As from Ophir or from Memphre + Stretches the caravan. + From far the eyes, its trail + Along the burning shale + Bending its wavering tail, + Like a mottled serpent scan. + These deserts are of God! + His are the bounds alone, + Here, where no feet have trod, + To Him its centre known! + And from this smoking sea + Veiled in obscurity, + The foam one seems to see + In fiery ashes thrown. + + "Shall desert change to lake?" cried out the cloud. + "Still further!" from heaven's depths sounded that Voice aloud. + + VI. + + Like tumbled waves, which a huge rock surround; + Like heaps of ruined towers which strew the ground, + See Babel now deserted and dismayed! + Huge witness to the folly of mankind; + Four distant mountains when the moonlight shined + Seem covered with its shade. + + O'er miles and miles the shattered ruins spread + Beneath its base, from captive tempests bred, + The air seemed filled with harmony strange and dire; + While swarmed around the entire human race + A future Babel, on the world's whole space + Fixed its eternal spire. + + Up to the zenith rose its lengthening stair, + While each great granite mountain lent a share + To form a stepping base; + Height upon height repeated seemed to rise, + For pyramid on pyramid the strainèd eyes + Saw take their ceaseless place. + + Through yawning walls huge elephants stalked by; + Under dark pillars rose a forestry, + Pillars by madness multiplied; + As round some giant hive, all day and night, + Huge vultures, and red eagles' wheeling flight + Was through each porch descried. + + "Must I complete it?" said the angered cloud. + "On still!" "Lord, whither?" groaned it, deep not loud. + + VII. + + Two cities, strange, unknown in history's page, + Up to the clouds seemed scaling, stage by stage, + Noiseless their streets; their sleeping inmates lie, + Their gods, their chariots, in obscurity! + Like sisters sleeping 'neath the same moonlight, + O'er their twin towers crept the shades of night, + Whilst scarce distinguished in the black profound, + Stairs, aqueducts, great pillars, gleamed around, + And ruined capitals: then was seen a group + Of granite elephants 'neath a dome to stoop, + Shapeless, giant forms to view arise, + Monsters around, the spawn of hideous ties! + Then hanging gardens, with flowers and galleries: + O'er vast fountains bending grew ebon-trees; + Temples, where seated on their rich tiled thrones, + Bull-headed idols shone in jasper stones; + Vast halls, spanned by one block, where watch and stare + Each upon each, with straight and moveless glare, + Colossal heads in circles; the eye sees + Great gods of bronze, their hands upon their knees. + Sight seemed confounded, and to have lost its powers, + 'Midst bridges, aqueducts, arches, and round towers, + Whilst unknown shapes fill up the devious views + Formed by these palaces and avenues. + Like capes, the lengthening shadows seem to rise + Of these dark buildings, pointed to the skies, + Immense entanglement in shroud of gloom! + The stars which gleamed in the empyrean dome, + Under the thousand arches in heaven's space + Shone as through meshes of the blackest lace. + Cities of hell, with foul desires demented, + And monstrous pleasures, hour by hour invented! + Each roof and home some monstrous mystery bore! + Which through the world spread like a twofold sore! + Yet all things slept, and scarce some pale late light + Flitted along the streets through the still night, + Lamps of debauch, forgotten and alone, + The feast's lost fires left there to flicker on; + The walls' large angles clove the light-lengthening shades + 'Neath the white moon, or on some pool's face played. + Perchance one heard, faint in the plain beneath, + The kiss suppressed, the mingling of the breath; + And the two sister cities, tired of heat, + In love's embrace lay down in murmurs sweet! + Whilst sighing winds the scent of sycamore + From Sodom to Gomorrah softly bore! + Then over all spread out the blackened cloud, + "'Tis here!" the Voice on high exclaimed aloud. + + VIII. + + From a cavern wide + In the rent cloud's side, + In sulphurous showers + The red flame pours. + The palaces fall + In the lurid light, + Which casts a red pall + O'er their facades white! + + Oh, Sodom! Gomorrah! + What a dome of horror + Rests now on your walls! + On you the cloud falls, + Nation perverse! + On your fated heads, + From its fell jaws, a curse + Its lightning fierce spreads! + + The people awaken + Which godlessly slept; + Their palaces shaken, + Their offences unwept! + Their rolling cars all + Meet and crash in the street; + And the crowds, for a pall, + Find flames round their feet! + + Numberless dead, + Round these high towers spread, + Still sleep in the shade + By their rugged heights made; + Colossi of rocks + In ill-steadied blocks! + So hang on a wall + Black ants, like a pall! + + To escape is in vain + From this horrible rain! + Alas! all things die; + In the lightning's red flash + The bridges all crash; + 'Neath the tiles the flame creeps; + From the fire-struck steeps + Falls on the pavements below, + All lurid in glow, + Rolling down from on high! + + Beneath every spark, + The red, tyrannous fire + Mounts up in the dark + Ever redder and higher; + More swiftly than steed + Uncontrolled, see it pass! + Horrid idols all twist, + By the crumbling flame kissed + In their infamous dread, + Shrivelled members of brass! + + It grows angry, flows on, + Silver towers fall down + Unforeseen, like a dream + In its green and red stream, + Which lights up the walls + Ere one crashes and falls, + Like the changeable scale + Of a lizard's bright mail. + Agate, porphyry, cracks + And is melted to wax! + Bend low to their doom + These stones of the tomb! + E'en the great marble giant + Called Nabo, sways pliant + Like a tree; whilst the flare + Seemed each column to scorch + As it blazed like a torch + Round and round in the air. + + The magi, in vain, + From the heights to the plain + Their gods' images carry + In white tunic: they quake— + No idol can make + The blue sulphur tarry; + The temple e'en where they meet, + Swept under their feet + In the folds of its sheet! + Turns a palace to coal! + Whence the straitened cries roll + From its terrified flock; + With incendiary grips + It loosens a block, + Which smokes and then slips + From its place by the shock; + To the surface first sheers, + Then melts, disappears, + Like the glacier, the rock! + The high priest, full of years, + On the burnt site appears, + Whence the others have fled. + Lo! his tiara's caught fire + As the furnace burns higher, + And pale, full of dread, + See, the hand he would raise + To tear his crown from the blaze + Is flaming instead! + + Men, women, in crowds + Hurry on—the fire shrouds + And blinds all their eyes + As, besieging each gate + Of these cities of fate + To the conscience-struck crowd, + In each fiery cloud, + Hell appears in the skies! + + IX. + + Men say that <i>then</i>, to see his foe's sad fall + As some old prisoner clings to his prison wall, + Babel, accomplice of their guilt, was seen + O'er the far hills to gaze with vision keen! + And as was worked this dispensation strange, + A wondrous noise filled the world's startled range; + Reached the dull hearing that deep, direful sound + Of their sad tribe who live below the ground. + + X. + + 'Gainst this pitiless flame who condemned could prevail? + Who these walls, burnt and calcined, could venture to scale? + Yet their vile hands they sought to uplift, + Yet they cared still to ask from what God, by what law? + In their last sad embrace, 'midst their honor and awe, + Of this mighty volcano the drift. + 'Neath great slabs of marble they hid them in vain, + 'Gainst this everliving fire, God's own flaming rain! + 'Tis the rash whom God seeks out the first; + They call on their gods, who were deaf to their cries, + For the punishing flame caused their cold granite eyes + In tears of hot lava to burst! + Thus away in the whirlwind did everything pass, + The man and the city, the soil and its grass! + God burnt this sad, sterile champaign; + Naught living was left of this people destroyed, + And the unknown wind which blew over the void, + Each mountain changed into a plain. + + XI. + + The palm-tree that grows on the rock to this day, + Feels its leaf growing yellow, its slight stem decay, + In the blasting and ponderous air; + These towns are no more! but to mirror their past, + O'er their embers a cold lake spread far and spread fast, + With smoke like a furnace, lies there! + + J.N. FAZAKERLEY +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PIRATES' SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Nous emmenions en esclavage.")</i> + + {VIII., March, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We're bearing fivescore Christian dogs + To serve the cruel drivers: + Some are fair beauties gently born, + And some rough coral-divers. + We hardy skimmers of the sea + Are lucky in each sally, + And, eighty strong, we send along + The dreaded Pirate Galley. + + A nunnery was spied ashore, + We lowered away the cutter, + And, landing, seized the youngest nun + Ere she a cry could utter; + Beside the creek, deaf to our oars, + She slumbered in green alley, + As, eighty strong, we sent along + The dreaded Pirate Galley. + + "Be silent, darling, you must come— + The wind is off shore blowing; + You only change your prison dull + For one that's splendid, glowing! + His Highness doats on milky cheeks, + So do not make us dally"— + We, eighty strong, who send along + The dreaded Pirate Galley. + + She sought to flee back to her cell, + And called us each a devil! + We dare do aught becomes Old Scratch, + But like a treatment civil, + So, spite of buffet, prayers, and calls— + Too late her friends to rally— + We, eighty strong, bore her along + Unto the Pirate Galley. + + The fairer for her tears profuse, + As dews refresh the flower, + She is well worth three purses full, + And will adorn the bower— + For vain her vow to pine and die + Thus torn from her dear valley: + She reigns, and we still row along + The dreaded Pirate Galley. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TURKISH CAPTIVE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Si je n'était captive.")</i> + + {IX., July, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! were I not a captive, + I should love this fair countree; + Those fields with maize abounding, + This ever-plaintive sea: + I'd love those stars unnumbered, + If, passing in the shade, + Beneath our walls I saw not + The spahi's sparkling blade. + + I am no Tartar maiden + That a blackamoor of price + Should tune my lute and hold to me + My glass of sherbet-ice. + Far from these haunts of vices, + In my dear countree, we + With sweethearts in the even + May chat and wander free. + + But still I love this climate, + Where never wintry breeze + Invades, with chilly murmur, + These open lattices; + Where rain is warm in summer, + And the insect glossy green, + Most like a living emerald, + Shines 'mid the leafy screen. + + With her chapelles fair Smyrna— + A gay princess is she! + Still, at her summons, round her + Unfading spring ye see. + And, as in beauteous vases, + Bright groups of flowers repose, + So, in her gulfs are lying + Her archipelagoes. + + I love these tall red turrets; + These standards brave unrolled; + And, like an infant's playthings, + These houses decked with gold. + I love forsooth these reveries, + Though sandstorms make me pant, + Voluptuously swaying + Upon an elephant. + + Here in this fairy palace, + Full of such melodies, + Methinks I hear deep murmurs + That in the deserts rise; + Soft mingling with the music + The Genii's voices pour, + Amid the air, unceasing, + Around us evermore. + + I love the burning odors + This glowing region gives; + And, round each gilded lattice, + The trembling, wreathing leaves; + And, 'neath the bending palm-tree, + The gayly gushing spring; + And on the snow-white minaret, + The stork with snowier wing. + + I love on mossy couch to sing + A Spanish roundelay, + And see my sweet companions + Around commingling gay,— + A roving band, light-hearted, + In frolicsome array,— + Who 'neath the screening parasols + Dance down the merry day. + But more than all enchanting + At night, it is to me, + To sit, where winds are sighing, + Lone, musing by the sea; + And, on its surface gazing, + To mark the moon so fair, + Her silver fan outspreading, + In trembling radiance there. + + W.D., <i>Tait's Edin. Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOONLIGHT ON THE BOSPHORUS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("La lune était sereine.")</i> + + {X., September, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave; + At the cool casement, to the evening breeze flung wide, + Leans the Sultana, and delights to watch the tide, + With surge of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets lave. + + From her hand, as it falls, vibrates the light guitar. + She listens—hark! that sound that echoes dull and low. + Is it the beat upon the Archipelago + Of some long galley's oar, from Scio bound afar? + + Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by one, + Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls? + Is it some hovering sprite with whistling scream that hurls + Down to the deep from yon old tower a loosened stone? + + Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio? + 'Tis no dark cormorants that on the ripple float, + 'Tis no dull plume of stone—no oars of Turkish boat, + With measured beat along the water creeping slow. + + 'Tis heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless dusky slaves; + And could you dare to sound the depths of yon dark tide, + Something like human form would stir within its side. + Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave. + + JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE VEIL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Qu'avez-vous, mes frères?")</i> + + {XI., September, 18288.} + + "Have you prayed tonight, Desdemona?" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SISTER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What has happened, my brothers? Your spirit to-day + Some secret sorrow damps + There's a cloud on your brow. What has happened? Oh, say, + For your eyeballs glare out with a sinister ray + Like the light of funeral lamps. + And the blades of your poniards are half unsheathed + In your belt—and ye frown on me! + There's a woe untold, there's a pang unbreathed + In your bosom, my brothers three! + + ELDEST BROTHER. + + Gulnara, make answer! Hast thou, since the dawn, + To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn? + + THE SISTER. + + As I came, oh, my brother! at noon—from the bath— + As I came—it was noon, my lords— + And your sister had then, as she constantly hath, + Drawn her veil close around her, aware that the path + Is beset by these foreign hordes. + But the weight of the noonday's sultry hour + Near the mosque was so oppressive + That—forgetting a moment the eye of the Giaour— + I yielded to th' heat excessive. + + SECOND BROTHER. + + Gulnara, make answer! Whom, then, hast thou seen, + In a turban of white and a caftan of green? + + THE SISTER. + + Nay, <i>he</i> might have been there; but I muflled me so, + He could scarcely have seen my figure.— + But why to your sister thus dark do you grow? + What words to yourselves do you mutter thus low, + Of "blood" and "an intriguer"? + Oh! ye cannot of murder bring down the red guilt + On your souls, my brothers, surely! + Though I fear—from the hands that are chafing the hilt, + And the hints you give obscurely. + + THIRD BROTHER. + + Gulnara, this evening when sank the red sun, + Didst thou mark how like blood in descending it shone? + + THE SISTER. + + Mercy! Allah! have pity! oh, spare! + See! I cling to your knees repenting! + Kind brothers, forgive me! for mercy, forbear! + Be appeased at the cry of a sister's despair, + For our mother's sake relenting. + O God! must I die? They are deaf to my cries! + Their sister's life-blood shedding; + They have stabbed me each one—I faint—o'er my eyes + A <i>veil of Death</i> is spreading! + + THE BROTHERS. + + Gulnara, farewell! take <i>that</i> veil; 'tis the gift + Of thy brothers—a veil thou wilt never lift! + + "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY). +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FAVORITE SULTANA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("N'ai-je pas pour toi, belle juive.")</i> + + {XII., Oct. 27, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To please you, Jewess, jewel! + I have thinned my harem out! + Must every flirting of your fan + Presage a dying shout? + + Grace for the damsels tender + Who have fear to hear your laugh, + For seldom gladness gilds your lips + But blood you mean to quaff. + + In jealousy so zealous, + Never was there woman worse; + You'd have no roses but those grown + Above some buried corse. + + Am I not pinioned firmly? + Why be angered if the door + Repulses fifty suing maids + Who vainly there implore? + + Let them live on—to envy + My own empress of the world, + To whom all Stamboul like a dog + Lies at the slippers curled. + + To you my heroes lower + Those scarred ensigns none have cowed; + To you their turbans are depressed + That elsewhere march so proud. + + To you Bassora offers + Her respect, and Trebizonde + Her carpets richly wrought, and spice + And gems, of which you're fond. + + To you the Cyprus temples + Dare not bar or close the doors; + For you the mighty Danube sends + The choicest of its stores. + + Fear you the Grecian maidens, + Pallid lilies of the isles? + Or the scorching-eyed sand-rover + From Baalbec's massy piles? + + Compared with yours, oh, daughter + Of King Solomon the grand, + What are round ebon bosoms, + High brows from Hellas' strand? + + You're neither blanched nor blackened, + For your tint of olive's clear; + Yours are lips of ripest cherry, + You are straight as Arab spear. + + Hence, launch no longer lightning + On these paltry slaves of ours. + Why should your flow of tears be matched + By their mean life-blood showers? + + Think only of our banquets + Brought and served by charming girls, + For beauties sultans must adorn + As dagger-hilts the pearls. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PASHA AND THE DERVISH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Un jour Ali passait.")</i> + + {XIII, Nov. 8, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ali came riding by—the highest head + Bent to the dust, o'ercharged with dread, + Whilst "God be praised!" all cried; + But through the throng one dervish pressed, + Aged and bent, who dared arrest + The pasha in his pride. + + "Ali Tepelini, light of all light, + Who hold'st the Divan's upper seat by right, + Whose fame Fame's trump hath burst— + Thou art the master of unnumbered hosts, + Shade of the Sultan—yet he only boasts + In thee a dog accurst! + + "An unseen tomb-torch flickers on thy path, + Whilst, as from vial full, thy spare-naught wrath + Splashes this trembling race: + These are thy grass as thou their trenchant scythes + Cleaving their neck as 'twere a willow withe— + Their blood none can efface. + + "But ends thy tether! for Janina makes + A grave for thee where every turret quakes, + And thou shalt drop below + To where the spirits, to a tree enchained, + Will clutch thee, there to be 'mid them retained + For all to-come in woe! + + "Or if, by happy chance, thy soul might flee + Thy victims, after, thou shouldst surely see + And hear thy crimes relate; + Streaked with the guileless gore drained from their veins, + Greater in number than the reigns on reigns + Thou hopedst for thy state. + + "This so will be! and neither fleet nor fort + Can stay or aid thee as the deathly port + Receives thy harried frame! + Though, like the cunning Hebrew knave of old, + To cheat the angel black, thou didst enfold + In altered guise thy name." + + Ali deemed anchorite or saint a pawn— + The crater of his blunderbuss did yawn, + Sword, dagger hung at ease: + But he had let the holy man revile, + Though clouds o'erswept his brow; then, with a smile, + He tossed him his pelisse. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOST BATTLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Allah! qui me rendra-")</i> + + {XVI., May, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array? + My emirs and my cavalry that shook the earth to-day; + My tent, my wide-extending camp, all dazzling to the sight, + Whose watchfires, kindled numberless beneath the brow of night, + Seemed oft unto the sentinel that watched the midnight hours, + As heaven along the sombre hill had rained its stars in showers? + Where are my beys so gorgeous, in their light pelisses gay, + And where my fierce Timariot bands, so fearless in the fray; + My dauntless khans, my spahis brave, swift thunderbolts of war; + My sunburnt Bedouins, trooping from the Pyramids afar, + Who laughed to see the laboring hind stand terrified at gaze, + And urged their desert horses on amid the ripening maize? + These horses with their fiery eyes, their slight untiring feet, + That flew along the fields of corn like grasshoppers so fleet— + What! to behold again no more, loud charging o'er the plain, + Their squadrons, in the hostile shot diminished all in vain, + Burst grandly on the heavy squares, like clouds that bear the storms, + Enveloping in lightning fires the dark resisting swarms! + Oh! they are dead! their housings bright are trailed amid their gore; + Dark blood is on their manes and sides, all deeply clotted o'er; + All vainly now the spur would strike these cold and rounded flanks, + To wake them to their wonted speed amid the rapid ranks: + Here the bold riders red and stark upon the sands lie down, + Who in their friendly shadows slept throughout the halt at noon. + Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array? + See where it straggles 'long the fields for leagues on leagues away, + Like riches from a spendthrift's hand flung prodigal to earth. + Lo! steed and rider;—Tartar chiefs or of Arabian birth, + Their turbans and their cruel course, their banners and their cries, + Seem now as if a troubled dream had passed before mine eyes— + My valiant warriors and their steeds, thus doomed to fall and bleed! + Their voices rouse no echo now, their footsteps have no speed; + They sleep, and have forgot at last the sabre and the bit— + Yon vale, with all the corpses heaped, seems one wide charnel-pit. + Long shall the evil omen rest upon this plain of dread— + To-night, the taint of solemn blood; to-morrow, of the dead. + Alas! 'tis but a shadow now, that noble armament! + How terribly they strove, and struck from morn to eve unspent, + Amid the fatal fiery ring, enamoured of the fight! + Now o'er the dim horizon sinks the peaceful pall of night: + The brave have nobly done their work, and calmly sleep at last. + The crows begin, and o'er the dead are gathering dark and fast; + Already through their feathers black they pass their eager beaks. + Forth from the forest's distant depth, from bald and barren peaks, + They congregate in hungry flocks and rend their gory prey. + Woe to that flaunting army's pride, so vaunting yesterday! + That formidable host, alas! is coldly nerveless now + To drive the vulture from his gorge, or scare the carrion crow. + Were now that host again mine own, with banner broad unfurled, + With it I would advance and win the empire of the world. + Monarchs to it should yield their realms and veil their haughty brows; + My sister it should ever be, my lady and my spouse. + Oh! what will unrestoring Death, that jealous tyrant lord, + Do with the brave departed souls that cannot swing a sword? + Why turned the balls aside from me? Why struck no hostile hand + My head within its turban green upon the ruddy sand? + I stood all potent yesterday; my bravest captains three, + All stirless in their tigered selle, magnificent to see, + Hailed as before my gilded tent rose flowing to the gales, + Shorn from the tameless desert steeds, three dark and tossing tails. + But yesterday a hundred drums were heard when I went by; + Full forty agas turned their looks respectful on mine eye, + And trembled with contracted brows within their hall of state. + Instead of heavy catapults, of slow unwieldy weight, + I had bright cannons rolling on oak wheels in threatening tiers, + And calm and steady by their sides marched English cannoniers. + But yesterday, and I had towns, and castles strong and high, + And Greeks in thousands, for the base and merciless to buy. + But yesterday, and arsenals and harems were my own; + While now, defeated and proscribed, deserted and alone, + I flee away, a fugitive, and of my former power, + Allah! I have not now at least one battlemented tower. + And must he fly—the grand vizier! the pasha of three tails! + O'er the horizon's bounding hills, where distant vision fails, + All stealthily, with eyes on earth, and shrinking from the sight, + As a nocturnal robber holds his dark and breathless flight, + And thinks he sees the gibbet spread its arms in solemn wrath, + In every tree that dimly throws its shadow on his path! + + Thus, after his defeat, pale Reschid speaks. + Among the dead we mourned a thousand Greeks. + Lone from the field the Pasha fled afar, + And, musing, wiped his reeking scimitar; + His two dead steeds upon the sands were flung, + And on their sides their empty stirrups hung. + + W.D., <i>Bentley's Miscellany</i>, 1839. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GREEK BOY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Les Turcs ont passés là.")</i> + + {XVIII., June 10, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All is a ruin where rage knew no bounds: + Chio is levelled, and loathed by the hounds, + For shivered yest'reen was her lance; + Sulphurous vapors envenom the place + Where her true beauties of Beauty's true race + Were lately linked close in the dance. + + Dark is the desert, with one single soul; + Cerulean eyes! whence the burning tears roll + In anguish of uttermost shame, + Under the shadow of one shrub of May, + Splashed still with ruddy drops, bent in decay + Where fiercely the hand of Lust came. + + "Soft and sweet urchin, still red with the lash + Of rein and of scabbard of wild Kuzzilbash, + What lack you for changing your sob— + If not unto laughter beseeming a child— + To utterance milder, though they have defiled + The graves which they shrank not to rob? + + "Would'st thou a trinket, a flower, or scarf, + Would'st thou have silver? I'm ready with half + These sequins a-shine in the sun! + Still more have I money—if you'll but speak!" + He spoke: and furious the cry of the Greek, + "Oh, give me your dagger and gun!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ZARA, THE BATHER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Sara, belle d'indolence.")</i> + + {XIX., August, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In a swinging hammock lying, + Lightly flying, + Zara, lovely indolent, + O'er a fountain's crystal wave + There to lave + Her young beauty—see her bent. + + As she leans, so sweet and soft, + Flitting oft, + O'er the mirror to and fro, + Seems that airy floating bat, + Like a feather + From some sea-gull's wing of snow. + + Every time the frail boat laden + With the maiden + Skims the water in its flight, + Starting from its trembling sheen, + Swift are seen + A white foot and neck so white. + + As that lithe foot's timid tips + Quick she dips, + Passing, in the rippling pool, + (Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!) + Frolic, she + Laughs to feel the pleasant cool. + + Here displayed, but half concealed— + Half revealed, + Each bright charm shall you behold, + In her innocence emerging, + As a-verging + On the wave her hands grow cold. + + For no star howe'er divine + Has the shine + Of a maid's pure loveliness, + Frightened if a leaf but quivers + As she shivers, + Veiled with naught but dripping trees. + + By the happy breezes fanned + See her stand,— + Blushing like a living rose, + On her bosom swelling high + If a fly + Dare to seek a sweet repose. + + In those eyes which maiden pride + Fain would hide, + Mark how passion's lightnings sleep! + And their glance is brighter far + Than the star + Brightest in heaven's bluest deep. + + O'er her limbs the glittering current + In soft torrent + Rains adown the gentle girl, + As if, drop by drop, should fall, + One and all + From her necklace every pearl. + + Lengthening still the reckless pleasure + At her leisure, + Care-free Zara ever slow + As the hammock floats and swings + Smiles and sings, + To herself, so sweet and low. + + "Oh, were I a capitana, + Or sultana, + Amber should be always mixt + In my bath of jewelled stone, + Near my throne, + Griffins twain of gold betwixt. + + "Then my hammock should be silk, + White as milk; + And, more soft than down of dove, + Velvet cushions where I sit + Should emit + Perfumes that inspire love. + + "Then should I, no danger near, + Free from fear, + Revel in my garden's stream; + Nor amid the shadows deep + Dread the peep, + Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam. + + "He who thus would play the spy, + On the die + For such sight his head must throw; + In his blood the sabre naked + Would be slakèd, + Of my slaves of ebon brow. + + "Then my rich robes trailing show + As I go, + None to chide should be so bold; + And upon my sandals fine + How should shine + Rubies worked in cloth-of-gold!" + + Fancying herself a queen, + All unseen, + Thus vibrating in delight; + In her indolent coquetting + Quite forgetting + How the hours wing their flight. + + As she lists the showery tinkling + Of the sprinkling + By her wanton curvets made; + Never pauses she to think + Of the brink + Where her wrapper white is laid. + + To the harvest-fields the while, + In long file, + Speed her sisters' lively band, + Like a flock of birds in flight + Streaming light, + Dancing onward hand in hand. + + And they're singing, every one, + As they run + This the burden of their lay: + "Fie upon such idleness! + Not to dress + Earlier on harvest-day!" + + JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EXPECTATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Moune, écureuil.")</i> + + {xx.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Squirrel, mount yon oak so high, + To its twig that next the sky + Bends and trembles as a flower! + Strain, O stork, thy pinion well,— + From thy nest 'neath old church-bell, + Mount to yon tall citadel, + And its tallest donjon tower! + To your mountain, eagle old, + Mount, whose brow so white and cold, + Kisses the last ray of even! + And, O thou that lov'st to mark + Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark, + Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark— + Joyous lark, O mount to heaven! + And now say, from topmost bough, + Towering shaft, and peak of snow, + And heaven's arch—O, can you see + One white plume that like a star, + Streams along the plain afar, + And a steed that from the war + Bears my lover back to me? + + JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOVER'S WISH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Si j'étais la feuille.")</i> + + {XXII., September, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West, + His course through the forest uncaring; + To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast + In a pendulous cradle is bearing. + + All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste, + As the dewdrops upon me were glancing; + When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste, + And round her the breezes are dancing. + + On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush + Thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver; + Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush, + And the murmuring fall of the river. + + By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane, + To catch the sweet breath of the roses; + Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain + 'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes. + + Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky, + Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring; + Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh, + And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring. + + On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way, + A charm that would lead to the bower; + Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day, + At the dawn and the vesper hour. + + Then hovering down on her brow would I light, + 'Midst her golden tresses entwining; + That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright, + And the sunbeams upon it shining. + + A single frail gem on her beautiful head, + I should sit in the golden glory; + And prouder I'd be than the diadem spread + Round the brow of kings famous in story. + + V., <i>Eton Observer</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SACKING OF THE CITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!")</i> + + {XXIII., November, 1825.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume, + The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks; + Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom, + Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks. + + Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high, + Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel; + Prostrate, the palaces, huge tombs of fire, lie, + While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel! + + Died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms, + O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight; + With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms, + At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight. + + Lo! where the city lies mantled in pall of death; + Lo! where thy mighty hand hath passed, all things must bend! + Priests prayed, the sword estopped blaspheming breath, + Vainly their cheating book for shield did they extend. + + Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel + Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian-kind, + To kiss thy sandall'd foot, O King, thy people kneel, + And golden circlets to thy victor-ankle bind. + + JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOORMAHAL THE FAIR.{1} + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Entre deux rocs d'un noir d'ébène.")</i> + + {XXVII., November, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Between two ebon rocks + Behold yon sombre den, + Where brambles bristle like the locks + Of wool between the horns of scapegoat banned by men! + + Remote in ruddy fog + Still hear the tiger growl + At the lion and stripèd dog + That prowl with rusty throats to taunt and roar and howl; + + Whilst other monsters fast + The hissing basilisk; + The hippopotamus so vast, + And the boa with waking appetite made brisk! + + The orfrey showing tongue, + The fly in stinging mood, + The elephant that crushes strong + And elastic bamboos an the scorpion's brood; + + And the men of the trees + With their families fierce, + Till there is not one scorching breeze + But brings here its venom—its horror to pierce— + + Yet, rather there be lone, + 'Mid all those horrors there, + Than hear the sickly honeyed tone + And see the swimming eyes of Noormahal the Fair! + + {Footnote 1: Noormahal (Arabic) the light of the house; some of the + Orientals deem fair hair and complexion a beauty.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DJINNS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Murs, ville et port.")</i> + + {XXVIII., Aug. 28, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Town, tower, + Shore, deep, + Where lower + Cliff's steep; + Waves gray, + Where play + Winds gay, + All sleep. + + Hark! a sound, + Far and slight, + Breathes around + On the night + High and higher, + Nigh and nigher, + Like a fire, + Roaring, bright. + + Now, on 'tis sweeping + With rattling beat, + Like dwarf imp leaping + In gallop fleet + He flies, he prances, + In frolic fancies, + On wave-crest dances + With pattering feet. + + Hark, the rising swell, + With each new burst! + Like the tolling bell + Of a convent curst; + Like the billowy roar + On a storm-lashed shore,— + Now hushed, but once more + Maddening to its worst. + + O God! the deadly sound + Of the Djinn's fearful cry! + Quick, 'neath the spiral round + Of the deep staircase fly! + See, see our lamplight fade! + And of the balustrade + Mounts, mounts the circling shade + Up to the ceiling high! + + 'Tis the Djinns' wild streaming swarm + Whistling in their tempest flight; + Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm, + Like a pine flame crackling bright. + Swift though heavy, lo! their crowd + Through the heavens rushing loud + Like a livid thunder-cloud + With its bolt of fiery might! + + Ho! they are on us, close without! + Shut tight the shelter where we lie! + With hideous din the monster rout, + Dragon and vampire, fill the sky! + The loosened rafter overhead + Trembles and bends like quivering reed; + Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, + As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly! + Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek! + The horrid troop before the tempest tossed— + O Heaven!—descends my lowly roof to seek: + + Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host. + Totters the house as though, like dry leaf shorn + From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne, + Up from its deep foundations it were torn + To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost! + + O Prophet! if thy hand but now + Save from these hellish things, + A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow, + Laden with pious offerings. + Bid their hot breath its fiery rain + Stream on the faithful's door in vain; + Vainly upon my blackened pane + Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings! + + They have passed!—and their wild legion + Cease to thunder at my door; + Fleeting through night's rayless region, + Hither they return no more. + Clanking chains and sounds of woe + Fill the forests as they go; + And the tall oaks cower low, + Bent their flaming light before. + + On! on! the storm of wings + Bears far the fiery fear, + Till scarce the breeze now brings + Dim murmurings to the ear; + Like locusts' humming hail, + Or thrash of tiny flail + Plied by the fitful gale + On some old roof-tree sere. + + Fainter now are borne + Feeble mutterings still; + As when Arab horn + Swells its magic peal, + Shoreward o'er the deep + Fairy voices sweep, + And the infant's sleep + Golden visions fill. + + Each deadly Djinn, + Dark child of fright, + Of death and sin, + Speeds in wild flight. + Hark, the dull moan, + Like the deep tone + Of Ocean's groan, + Afar, by night! + + More and more + Fades it slow, + As on shore + Ripples flow,— + As the plaint + Far and faint + Of a saint + Murmured low. + + Hark! hist! + Around, + I list! + The bounds + Of space + All trace + Efface + Of sound. + + JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OBDURATE BEAUTY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("A Juana la Grenadine!")</i> + + {XXIX., October, 1843.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To Juana ever gay, + Sultan Achmet spoke one day + "Lo, the realms that kneel to own + Homage to my sword and crown + All I'd freely cast away, + Maiden dear, for thee alone." + + "Be a Christian, noble king! + For it were a grievous thing: + Love to seek and find too well + In the arms of infidel. + Spain with cry of shame would ring, + If from honor faithful fell." + + "By these pearls whose spotless chain, + Oh, my gentle sovereign, + Clasps thy neck of ivory, + Aught thou askest I will be, + If that necklace pure of stain + Thou wilt give for rosary." + + JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DON RODRIGO. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A MOORISH BALLAD. + + <i>("Don Roderique est à la chasse.")</i> + + {XXX., May, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Unto the chase Rodrigo's gone, + With neither lance nor buckler; + A baleful light his eyes outshone— + To pity he's no truckler. + + He follows not the royal stag, + But, full of fiery hating, + Beside the way one sees him lag, + Impatient at the waiting. + + He longs his nephew's blood to spill, + Who 'scaped (the young Mudarra) + That trap he made and laid to kill + The seven sons of Lara. + + Along the road—at last, no balk— + A youth looms on a jennet; + He rises like a sparrow-hawk + About to seize a linnet. + + "What ho!" "Who calls?" "Art Christian knight, + Or basely born and boorish, + Or yet that thing I still more slight— + The spawn of some dog Moorish? + + "I seek the by-born spawn of one + I e'er renounce as brother— + Who chose to make his latest son + Caress a Moor as mother. + + "I've sought that cub in every hole, + 'Midland, and coast, and islet, + For he's the thief who came and stole + Our sheathless jewelled stilet." + + "If you well know the poniard worn + Without edge-dulling cover— + Look on it now—here, plain, upborne! + And further be no rover. + + "Tis I—as sure as you're abhorred + Rodrigo—cruel slayer, + 'Tis I am Vengeance, and your lord, + Who bids you crouch in prayer! + + "I shall not grant the least delay— + Use what you have, defending, + I'll send you on that darksome way + Your victims late were wending. + + "And if I wore this, with its crest— + Our seal with gems enwreathing— + In open air—'twas in your breast + To seek its fated sheathing!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CORNFLOWERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Tandis que l'étoile inodore.")</i> + + {XXXII.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While bright but scentless azure stars + Be-gem the golden corn, + And spangle with their skyey tint + The furrows not yet shorn; + While still the pure white tufts of May + Ape each a snowy ball,— + Away, ye merry maids, and haste + To gather ere they fall! + + Nowhere the sun of Spain outshines + Upon a fairer town + Than Peñafiel, or endows + More richly farming clown; + Nowhere a broader square reflects + Such brilliant mansions, tall,— + Away, ye merry maids, etc. + + Nowhere a statelier abbey rears + Dome huger o'er a shrine, + Though seek ye from old Rome itself + To even Seville fine. + Here countless pilgrims come to pray + And promenade the Mall,— + Away, ye merry maids, etc. + + Where glide the girls more joyfully + Than ours who dance at dusk, + With roses white upon their brows, + With waists that scorn the busk? + Mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes— + Compared with these, how small! + Away, ye merry maids, etc. + + A blossom in a city lane, + Alizia was our pride, + And oft the blundering bee, deceived, + Came buzzing to her side— + But, oh! for one that felt the sting, + And found, 'neath honey, gall— + Away, ye merry maids, etc. + + Young, haughty, from still hotter lands, + A stranger hither came— + Was he a Moor or African, + Or Murcian known to fame? + None knew—least, she—or false or true, + The name by which to call. + Away, ye merry maids, etc. + + Alizia asked not his degree, + She saw him but as Love, + And through Xarama's vale they strayed, + And tarried in the grove,— + Oh! curses on that fatal eve, + And on that leafy hall! + Away, ye merry maids, etc. + + The darkened city breathed no more; + The moon was mantled long, + Till towers thrust the cloudy cloak + Upon the steeples' throng; + The crossway Christ, in ivy draped, + Shrank, grieving, 'neath the pall,— + Away, ye merry maids, etc. + + But while, alone, they kept the shade, + The other dark-eyed dears + Were murmuring on the stifling air + Their jealous threats and fears; + Alizia was so blamed, that time, + Unheeded rang the call: + Away, ye merry maids, etc. + + Although, above, the hawk describes + The circle round the lark, + It sleeps, unconscious, and our lass + Had eyes but for her spark— + A spark?—a sun! 'Twas Juan, King! + Who wears our coronal,— + Away, ye merry maids, etc. + + A love so far above one's state + Ends sadly. Came a black + And guarded palanquin to bear + The girl that ne'er comes back; + By royal writ, some nunnery + Still shields her from us all + Away, ye merry maids, and haste + To gather ere they fall! + + H. L. WILLIAMS +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAZEPPA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Ainsi, lorsqu'un mortel!")</i> + + {XXXIV., May, 1828.} + + As when a mortal—Genius' prize, alack! + Is, living, bound upon thy fatal back, + Thou reinless racing steed! + In vain he writhes, mere cloud upon a star, + Thou bearest him as went Mazeppa, far + Out of the flow'ry mead,— + So—though thou speed'st implacable, (like him, + Spent, pallid, torn, bruised, weary, sore and dim, + As if each stride the nearer bring + Him to the grave)—when comes <i>the time</i>, + After the fall, he rises—KING! + + H.L. WILLIAMS +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DANUBE IN WRATH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Quoi! ne pouvez-vous vivre ensemble?")</i> + + {XXXV., June, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The River Deity upbraids his Daughters, the contributary Streams:— + + Ye daughters mine! will naught abate + Your fierce interminable hate? + Still am I doomed to rue the fate + That such unfriendly neighbors made? + The while ye might, in peaceful cheer, + Mirror upon your waters clear, + Semlin! thy Gothic steeples dear, + And thy bright minarets, Belgrade! + + <i>Fraser's Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OLD OCEAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("J'étais seul près des flots.")</i> + + {XXXVII., September 5, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I stood by the waves, while the stars soared in sight, + Not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright; + Scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eye; + And the woods, and the hills, and all nature around, + Seem'd to question with moody, mysterious sound, + The waves, and the pure stars on high. + And the clear constellations, that infinite throng, + While thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song, + Replying, bowed meekly their diamond-blaze— + And the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest, + Chorus'd forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest + "Creator! we bless thee and praise!" + + R.C. ELLWOOD +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY NAPOLEON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Toujours lui! lui partout!")</i> + + {XL., December, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Above all others, everywhere I see + His image cold or burning! + My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free + The thoughts within me yearning. + My quivering lips pour forth the words + That cluster in his name of glory— + The star gigantic with its rays of swords + Whose gleams irradiate all modern story. + + I see his finger pointing where the shell + Should fall to slay most rabble, + And save foul regicides; or strike the knell + Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble. + A Consul then, o'er young but proud, + With midnight poring thinned, and sallow, + But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud, + And round pale face and lank locks form the halo. + + And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame + Whole nations' contact urging + To gain his soldiers gold and fame + Oh, Sun on high emerging, + Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells + Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose + To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells, + Into his host of half-a-million heroes! + + What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart. + No weight of arms enfolded + Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart + Which Nature—not her journeymen—self-moulded. + Let sordid jailers vex their prize; + But only bends that brow to lightning, + As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs + Cleave through the storm and haste where France looms bright'ning. + + Alone, but greater! Broke the sceptre, true! + Yet lingers still some power— + In tears of woe man's metal may renew + The temper of high hour; + For, bating breath, e'er list the kings + The pinions clipped may grow! the Eagle + May burst, in frantic thirst for home, the rings + And rend the Bulldog, Fox, and Bear, and Beagle! + + And, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and here + Eternal brightness coming! + The eye so weary's freshened with a tear + As rises distant drumming, + And wailing cheer—they pass the pale + His army mourns though still's the end hid; + And from his war-stained cloak, he answers "Hail!" + And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid! + + H.L. WILLIAMS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE.—1831. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PATIENCE OF THE PEOPLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Il s'est dit tant de fois.")</i> + + {III., May, 1830.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How often have the people said: "What's power?" + Who reigns soon is dethroned? each fleeting hour + Has onward borne, as in a fevered dream, + Such quick reverses, like a judge supreme— + Austere but just, they contemplate the end + To which the current of events must tend. + Self-confidence has taught them to forbear, + And in the vastness of their strength, they spare. + Armed with impunity, for <i>one in vain</i> + Resists a <i>nation</i>, they let others reign. + + G.W.M. REYNOLDS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DICTATED BEFORE THE RHONE GLACIER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Souvent quand mon esprit riche.")</i> + + {VII., May 18, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled, + Floats on in repose round this wonderful world, + Oft the sacred fire from heaven— + Mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul— + Strikes mine with its ray, and above the pole + Its upward course is driven, + + Like a wandering cloud, then, my eager thought + Capriciously flies, to no guidance brought, + With every quarter's wind; + It regards from those radiant vaults on high, + Earth's cities below, and again doth fly, + And leaves but its shadow behind. + + In the glistening gold of the morning bright, + It shines, detaching some lance of light, + Or, as warrior's armor rings; + It forages forests that ferment around, + Or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found, + Where the west its radiance flings. + + Or, on mountain peak, that rears its head + Where snow-clad Alps around are spread, + By furious gale 'tis thrown. + From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away, + And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray, + The giant mountain's crown! + + Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled, + In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed; + On its side the rainbow plays, + And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below, + The last slanting ray on its crest of snow + Makes its cap like a crater to blaze. + + In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light, + The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight, + The eagle afar is driven; + The deluge but roars in despair to its feet, + And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet, + So near doth it rise to heaven. + + Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear, + Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near; + On the starry vault to gaze, + And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night, + On th' horizon high heaving, like arches of light, + Till again the sun shall blaze. + + For then will the glacier with glory be graced, + On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed, + The morn its echoes greet; + Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life, + Like Chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife, + When waters on waters meet. + + As the spirit of poesy touches my thought, + It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought, + From earth, with the waters of pain. + As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends, + These fly to the heavens—their course never ends, + But descend to the ocean again. + + <i>Author of "Critical Essays."</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POET'S LOVE FOR LIVELINESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Moi, quelque soit le monde.")</i> + + {XV., May 11, 1830.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For me, whate'er my life and lot may show, + Years blank with gloom or cheered by mem'ry's glow, + Turmoil or peace; never be it mine, I pray, + To be a dweller of the peopled earth, + Save 'neath a roof alive with children's mirth + Loud through the livelong day. + + So, if my hap it be to see once more + Those scenes my footsteps tottered in before, + An infant follower in Napoleon's train: + Rodrigo's holds, Valencia and Leon, + And both Castiles, and mated Aragon; + Ne'er be it mine, O Spain! + + To pass thy plains with cities scant between, + Thy stately arches flung o'er deep ravine, + Thy palaces, of Moor's or Roman's time; + Or the swift makings of thy Guadalquiver, + Save in those gilded cars, where bells forever + Ring their melodious chime. + + <i>Fraser's Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INFANTILE INFLUENCE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Lorsque l'enfant parait.")</i> + + {XIX., May 11, 1830.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The child comes toddling in, and young and old + With smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold, + And artless, babyish joy; + A playful welcome greets it through the room, + The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom, + To greet the happy boy. + + If June with flowers has spangled all the ground, + Or winter bleak the flickering hearth around + Draws close the circling seat; + The child still sheds a never-failing light; + We call; Mamma with mingled joy and fright + Watches its tottering feet. + + Perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw, + We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law, + Or politics, or prayer; + The child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play, + Farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay, + Philosophy and care. + + When fancy wakes, but sense in heaviest sleep + Lies steeped, and like the sobs of them that weep + The dark stream sinks and swells, + The dawn, like Pharos gleaming o'er the sea, + Bursts forth, and sudden wakes the minstrelsy + Of birds and chiming bells; + + Thou art my dawn; my soul is as the field, + Where sweetest flowers their balmy perfumes yield + When breathed upon by thee, + Of forest, where thy voice like zephyr plays, + And morn pours out its flood of golden rays, + When thy sweet smile I see. + + Oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue; + And little hands that evil never knew, + Pure as the new-formed snow; + Thy feet are still unstained by this world's mire, + Thy golden locks like aureole of fire + Circle thy cherub brow! + + Dove of our ark, thine angel spirit flies + On azure wings forth from thy beaming eyes. + Though weak thine infant feet, + What strange amaze this new and strange world gives + To thy sweet virgin soul, that spotless lives + In virgin body sweet. + + Oh, gentle face, radiant with happy smile, + And eager prattling tongue that knows no guile, + Quick changing tears and bliss; + Thy soul expands to catch this new world's light, + Thy mazed eyes to drink each wondrous sight, + Thy lips to taste the kiss. + + Oh, God! bless me and mine, and these I love, + And e'en my foes that still triumphant prove + Victors by force or guile; + A flowerless summer may we never see, + Or nest of bird bereft, or hive of bee, + Or home of infant's smile. + + HENRY HIGHTON, M.A. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WATCHING ANGEL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Dans l'alcôve sombre.")</i> + + {XX., November, 1831.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the dusky nook, + Near the altar laid, + Sleeps the child in shadow + Of his mother's bed: + Softly he reposes, + And his lid of roses, + Closed to earth, uncloses + On the heaven o'erhead. + + Many a dream is with him, + Fresh from fairyland, + Spangled o'er with diamonds + Seems the ocean sand; + Suns are flaming there, + Troops of ladies fair + Souls of infants bear + In each charming hand. + + Oh, enchanting vision! + Lo, a rill upsprings, + And from out its bosom + Comes a voice that sings + Lovelier there appear + Sire and sisters dear, + While his mother near + Plumes her new-born wings. + + But a brighter vision + Yet his eyes behold; + Roses pied and lilies + Every path enfold; + Lakes delicious sleeping, + Silver fishes leaping, + Through the wavelets creeping + Up to reeds of gold. + + Slumber on, sweet infant, + Slumber peacefully + Thy young soul yet knows not + What thy lot may be. + Like dead weeds that sweep + O'er the dol'rous deep, + Thou art borne in sleep. + What is all to thee? + + Thou canst slumber by the way; + Thou hast learnt to borrow + Naught from study, naught from care; + The cold hand of sorrow + On thy brow unwrinkled yet, + Where young truth and candor sit, + Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ + That sad word, "To-morrow!" + + Innocent! thou sleepest— + See the angelic band, + Who foreknow the trials + That for man are planned; + Seeing him unarmed, + Unfearing, unalarmed, + With their tears have warmed + This unconscious hand. + + Still they, hovering o'er him, + Kiss him where he lies, + Hark, he sees them weeping, + "Gabriel!" he cries; + "Hush!" the angel says, + On his lip he lays + One finger, one displays + His native skies. + + <i>Foreign Quarterly Review</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SUNSET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Le soleil s'est couché")</i> + + {XXXV. vi., April, 1829.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sun set this evening in masses of cloud, + The storm comes to-morrow, then calm be the night, + Then the Dawn in her chariot refulgent and proud, + Then more nights, and still days, steps of Time in his flight. + The days shall pass rapid as swifts on the wing. + O'er the face of the hills, o'er the face of the seas, + O'er streamlets of silver, and forests that ring + With a dirge for the dead, chanted low by the breeze; + The face of the waters, the brow of the mounts + Deep scarred but not shrivelled, and woods tufted green, + Their youth shall renew; and the rocks to the founts + Shall yield what these yielded to ocean their queen. + But day by day bending still lower my head, + Still chilled in the sunlight, soon I shall have cast, + At height of the banquet, my lot with the dead, + Unmissed by creation aye joyous and vast. + + TORU DUTT. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Ma fille, va prier!")</i> + + {XXXVII., June, 1830.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + Come, child, to prayer; the busy day is done, + A golden star gleams through the dusk of night; + The hills are trembling in the rising mist, + The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight; + All things wend home to rest; the roadside trees + Shake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze. + + The sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze, + As twilight open flings the doors of night; + The fringe of carmine narrows in the west, + The rippling waves are tipped with silver light; + The bush, the path—all blend in one dull gray; + The doubtful traveller gropes his anxious way. + + Oh, day! with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife; + Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet, + The sad winds moaning through the ruined tower, + The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat— + All nature groans opprest with toil and care, + And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer. + + At eve the babes with angels converse hold, + While we to our strange pleasures wend our way, + Each with its little face upraised to heaven, + With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray, + At selfsame hour with selfsame words they call + On God, the common Father of them all. + + And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon, + Born as the busy day's last murmurs die, + In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom + Their breathing lips and golden locks descry. + And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam, + Around their curtained cradles clustering come. + + Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent; + Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure, and light; + Oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles, + Meet prelude to the harmonies of night; + As birds beneath the wing enfold their head, + Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed. + + HENRY HIGHTON, M.A. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To prayer, my child! and O, be thy first prayer + For her who, many nights, with anxious care, + Rocked thy first cradle; who took thy infant soul + From heaven and gave it to the world; then rife + With love, still drank herself the gall of life, + And left for thy young lips the honeyed bowl. + + And then—I need it more—then pray for me! + For she is gentle, artless, true like thee;— + She has a guileless heart, brow placid still; + Pity she has for all, envy for none; + Gentle and wise, she patiently lives on; + And she endures, nor knows who does the ill. + + In culling flowers, her novice hand has ne'er + Touched e'en the outer rind of vice; no snare + With smiling show has lured her steps aside: + On her the past has left no staining mark; + Nor knows she aught of those bad thoughts which, dark + Like shade on waters, o'er the spirit glide. + + She knows not—nor mayest thou—the miseries + In which our spirits mingle: vanities, + Remorse, soul-gnawing cares, Pleasure's false show: + Passions which float upon the heart like foam, + Bitter remembrances which o'er us come, + And Shame's red spot spread sudden o'er the brow. + + I know life better! when thou'rt older grown + I'll tell thee—it is needful to be known— + Of the pursuit of wealth—art, power; the cost. + That it is folly, nothingness: that shame + For glory is oft thrown us in the game + Of Fortune; chances where the soul is lost. + + The soul will change. Although of everything + The cause and end be clear, yet wildering + We roam through life (of vice and error full). + We wander as we go; we feel the load + Of doubt; and to the briars upon the road + Man leaves his virtue, as the sheep its wool. + + Then go, go pray for me! And as the prayer + Gushes in words, be this the form they bear:— + "Lord, Lord, our Father! God, my prayer attend; + Pardon! Thou art good! Pardon—Thou art great!" + Let them go freely forth, fear not their fate! + Where thy soul sends them, thitherward they tend. + + There's nothing here below which does not find + Its tendency. O'er plains the rivers wind, + And reach the sea; the bee, by instinct driven, + Finds out the honeyed flowers; the eagle flies + To seek the sun; the vulture where death lies; + The swallow to the spring; the prayer to Heaven! + + And when thy voice is raised to God for me, + I'm like the slave whom in the vale we see + Seated to rest, his heavy load laid by; + I feel refreshed—the load of faults and woe + Which, groaning, I drag with me as I go, + Thy wingèd prayer bears off rejoicingly! + + Pray for thy father! that his dreams be bright + With visitings of angel forms of light, + And his soul burn as incense flaming wide, + Let thy pure breath all his dark sins efface, + So that his heart be like that holy place, + An altar pavement each eve purified! + + C., <i>Tait's Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LES CHANTS DU CRÉPUSCULE.—1849. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PRELUDE TO "THE SONGS OF TWILIGHT." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("De quel non te nommer?")</i> + + {PRELUDE, a, Oct. 20, 1835.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How shall I note thee, line of troubled years, + Which mark existence in our little span? + One constant twilight in the heaven appears— + One constant twilight in the mind of man! + + Creed, hope, anticipation and despair, + Are but a mingling, as of day and night; + The globe, surrounded by deceptive air, + Is all enveloped in the same half-light. + + And voice is deadened by the evening breeze, + The shepherd's song, or maiden's in her bower, + Mix with the rustling of the neighboring trees, + Within whose foliage is lulled the power. + + Yet all unites! The winding path that leads + Thro' fields where verdure meets the trav'ller's eye. + The river's margin, blurred with wavy reeds, + The muffled anthem, echoing to the sky! + + The ivy smothering the armèd tower; + The dying wind that mocks the pilot's ear; + The lordly equipage at midnight hour, + Draws into danger in a fog the peer; + + The votaries of Satan or of Jove; + The wretched mendicant absorbed in woe; + The din of multitudes that onward move; + The voice of conscience in the heart below; + + The waves, which Thou, O Lord, alone canst still; + Th' elastic air; the streamlet on its way; + And all that man projects, or sovereigns will; + Or things inanimate might seem to say; + + The strain of gondolier slow streaming by; + The lively barks that o'er the waters bound; + The trees that shake their foliage to the sky; + The wailing voice that fills the cots around; + + And man, who studies with an aching heart— + For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere, + In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart— + Those doubts at length will arguments appear! + + Hence, reader, know the subject of my song— + A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom, + Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along, + With noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb! + + G.W.M. REYNOLDS +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAND OF FABLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("L'Orient! qu'y voyez-vous, poëtes?")</i> + + {PRELUDE, b.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes, + Unto the East, and say what there appears! + "Alas!" the voice of Poesy replies, + "Mystic's that light between the hemispheres!" + + "Yes, dread's the mystic light in yonder heaven— + Dull is the gleam behind the distant hill; + Like feeble flashes in the welkin driven, + When the far thunder seems as it were still! + + "But who can tell if that uncertain glare + Be Phoebus' self, adorned with glowing vest; + Or, if illusions, pregnant in the air, + Have drawn our glances to the radiant west? + + "Haply the sunset has deceived the sight— + Perchance 'tis evening, while we look for morning; + Bewildered in the mazes of twilight, + That lucid sunset may <i>appear</i> a dawning!" + + G.W.M. REYNOLDS +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Frères, vous avez vos journées.")</i> + + {I., July, 1830.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Youth of France, sons of the bold, + Your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold! + Our civic-laurels—honored dead! + So bright your triumphs in life's morn, + Your maiden-standards hacked and torn, + On Austerlitz might lustre shed. + + All that your fathers did re-done— + A people's rights all nobly won— + Ye tore them living from the shroud! + Three glorious days bright July's gift, + The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift! + Oh! of such deeds be ever proud! + + Of patriot sires ye lineage claim, + Their souls shone in your eye of flame; + Commencing the great work was theirs; + On you the task to finish laid + Your fruitful mother, France, who bade + Flow in one day a hundred years. + + E'en chilly Albion admires, + The grand example Europe fires; + America shall clap her hands, + When swiftly o'er the Atlantic wave, + Fame sounds the news of how the brave, + In three bright days, have burst their bands! + + With tyrant dead your fathers traced + A circle wide, with battles graced; + Victorious garland, red and vast! + Which blooming out from home did go + To Cadiz, Cairo, Rome, Moscow, + From Jemappes to Montmirail passed! + + Of warlike Lyceums{1} ye are + The favored sons; there, deeds of war + Formed e'en your plays, while o'er you shook + The battle-flags in air aloft! + Passing your lines, Napoleon oft + Electrified you with a look! + + Eagle of France! whose vivid wing + Did in a hundred places fling + A bloody feather, till one night + The arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wave! + Look up—rejoice—for now thy brave + And worthy eaglets dare the light. + + ELIZABETH COLLINS. + + {Footnote 1: The pupils of the Polytechnic Military School distinguished + themselves by their patriotic zeal and military skill, through all the + troubles.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TRIBUTE TO THE VANQUISHED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Laissez-moi pleurer sur cette race.")</i> + + {I. v.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! let me weep that race whose day is past, + By exile given, by exile claimed once more, + Thrice swept away upon that fatal blast. + Whate'er its blame, escort we to our shore + These relics of the monarchy of yore; + And to th' outmarching oriflamme be paid + War's honors by the flag on Fleurus' field displayed! + + <i>Fraser's Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANGEL OR DEMON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Tu domines notre âge; ange ou démon, qu'importe!")</i> + + {I. vii.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Angel or demon! thou,—whether of light + The minister, or darkness—still dost sway + This age of ours; thine eagle's soaring flight + Bears us, all breathless, after it away. + The eye that from thy presence fain would stray, + Shuns thee in vain; thy mighty shadow thrown + Rests on all pictures of the living day, + And on the threshold of our time alone, + Dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, Napoleon! + + Thus, when the admiring stranger's steps explore + The subject-lands that 'neath Vesuvius be, + Whether he wind along the enchanting shore + To Portici from fair Parthenope, + Or, lingering long in dreamy reverie, + O'er loveliest Ischia's od'rous isle he stray, + Wooed by whose breath the soft and am'rous sea + Seems like some languishing sultana's lay, + A voice for very sweets that scarce can win its way. + + Him, whether Paestum's solemn fane detain, + Shrouding his soul with meditation's power; + Or at Pozzuoli, to the sprightly strain + Of tarantella danced 'neath Tuscan tower, + Listening, he while away the evening hour; + Or wake the echoes, mournful, lone and deep, + Of that sad city, in its dreaming bower + By the volcano seized, where mansions keep + The likeness which they wore at that last fatal sleep; + + Or be his bark at Posillippo laid, + While as the swarthy boatman at his side + Chants Tasso's lays to Virgil's pleased shade, + Ever he sees, throughout that circuit wide, + From shaded nook or sunny lawn espied, + From rocky headland viewed, or flow'ry shore, + From sea, and spreading mead alike descried, + <i>The Giant Mount</i>, tow'ring all objects o'er, + And black'ning with its breath th' horizon evermore! + + <i>Fraser's Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Quand longtemps a grondé la bouche du Vésuve.")</i> + + {I. vii.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When huge Vesuvius in its torment long, + Threatening has growled its cavernous jaws among, + When its hot lava, like the bubbling wine, + Foaming doth all its monstrous edge incarnadine, + Then is alarm in Naples. + + With dismay, + Wanton and wild her weeping thousands pour, + Convulsive grasp the ground, its rage to stay, + Implore the angry Mount—in vain implore! + For lo! a column tow'ring more and more, + Of smoke and ashes from the burning crest + Shoots like a vulture's neck reared from its airy nest. + + Sudden a flash, and from th' enormous den + Th' eruption's lurid mass bursts forth amain, + Bounding in frantic ecstasy. Ah! then + Farewell to Grecian fount and Tuscan fane! + Sails in the bay imbibe the purpling stain, + The while the lava in profusion wide + Flings o'er the mountain's neck its showery locks untied. + + It comes—it comes! that lava deep and rich, + That dower which fertilizes fields and fills + New moles upon the waters, bay and beach. + Broad sea and clustered isles, one terror thrills + As roll the red inexorable rills; + While Naples trembles in her palaces, + More helpless than the leaves when tempests shake the trees. + + Prodigious chaos, streets in ashes lost, + Dwellings devoured and vomited again. + Roof against neighbor-roof, bewildered, tossed. + The waters boiling and the burning plain; + While clang the giant steeples as they reel, + Unprompted, their own tocsin peal. + + Yet 'mid the wreck of cities, and the pride + Of the green valleys and the isles laid low, + The crash of walls, the tumult waste and wide, + O'er sea and land; 'mid all this work of woe, + Vesuvius still, though close its crater-glow, + Forgetful spares—Heaven wills that it should spare, + The lonely cell where kneels an aged priest in prayer. + + <i>Fraser's Magazine</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MARRIAGE AND FEASTS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("La salle est magnifique.")</i> + + {IV. Aug. 23, 1839.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The hall is gay with limpid lustre bright— + The feast to pampered palate gives delight— + The sated guests pick at the spicy food, + And drink profusely, for the cheer is good; + And at that table—where the wise are few— + Both sexes and all ages meet the view; + The sturdy warrior with a thoughtful face— + The am'rous youth, the maid replete with grace, + The prattling infant, and the hoary hair + Of second childhood's proselytes—are there;— + And the most gaudy in that spacious hall, + Are e'er the young, or oldest of them all + Helmet and banner, ornament and crest, + The lion rampant, and the jewelled vest, + The silver star that glitters fair and white, + The arms that tell of many a nation's might— + Heraldic blazonry, ancestral pride, + And all mankind invents for pomp beside, + The wingèd leopard, and the eagle wild— + All these encircle woman, chief and child; + Shine on the carpet burying their feet, + Adorn the dishes that contain their meat; + And hang upon the drapery, which around + Falls from the lofty ceiling to the ground, + Till on the floor its waving fringe is spread, + As the bird's wing may sweep the roses' bed.— + + Thus is the banquet ruled by Noise and Light, + Since Light and Noise are foremost on the site. + + The chamber echoes to the joy of them + Who throng around, each with his diadem— + Each seated on proud throne—but, lesson vain! + Each sceptre holds its master with a chain! + Thus hope of flight were futile from that hall, + Where chiefest guest was most enslaved of all! + The godlike-making draught that fires the soul + The Love—sweet poison-honey—past control, + (Formed of the sexual breath—an idle name, + Offspring of Fancy and a nervous frame)— + Pleasure, mad daughter of the darksome Night, + Whose languid eye flames when is fading light— + The gallant chases where a man is borne + By stalwart charger, to the sounding horn— + The sheeny silk, the bed of leaves of rose, + Made more to soothe the sight than court repose; + The mighty palaces that raise the sneer + Of jealous mendicants and wretches near— + The spacious parks, from which horizon blue + Arches o'er alabaster statues new; + Where Superstition still her walk will take, + Unto soft music stealing o'er the lake— + The innocent modesty by gems undone— + The qualms of judges by small brib'ry won— + The dread of children, trembling while they play— + The bliss of monarchs, potent in their sway— + The note of war struck by the culverin, + That snakes its brazen neck through battle din— + The military millipede + That tramples out the guilty seed— + The capital all pleasure and delight— + And all that like a town or army chokes + The gazer with foul dust or sulphur smokes. + The budget, prize for which ten thousand bait + A subtle hook, that ever, as they wait + Catches a weed, and drags them to their fate, + While gleamingly its golden scales still spread— + Such were the meats by which these guests were fed. + + A hundred slaves for lazy master cared, + And served each one with what was e'er prepared + By him, who in a sombre vault below, + Peppered the royal pig with peoples' woe, + And grimly glad went laboring till late— + The morose alchemist we know as Fate! + That ev'ry guest might learn to suit his taste, + Behind had Conscience, real or mock'ry, placed; + Conscience a guide who every evil spies, + But royal nurses early pluck out both his eyes! + + Oh! at the table there be all the great, + Whose lives are bubbles that best joys inflate! + Superb, magnificent of revels—doubt + That sagest lose their heads in such a rout! + In the long laughter, ceaseless roaming round, + Joy, mirth and glee give out a maelström's sound; + And the astonished gazer casts his care, + Where ev'ry eyeball glistens in the flare. + + But oh! while yet the singing Hebes pour + Forgetfulness of those without the door— + At very hour when all are most in joy, + And the hid orchestra annuls annoy, + Woe—woe! with jollity a-top the heights, + With further tapers adding to the lights, + And gleaming 'tween the curtains on the street, + Where poor folks stare—hark to the heavy feet! + Some one smites roundly on the gilded grate, + Some one below will be admitted straight, + Some one, though not invited, who'll not wait! + Close not the door! Your orders are vain breath— + That stranger enters to be known as Death— + Or merely Exile—clothed in alien guise— + Death drags away—with <i>his</i> prey Exile flies! + + Death is that sight. He promenades the hall, + And casts a gloomy shadow on them all, + 'Neath which they bend like willows soft, + Ere seizing one—the dumbest monarch oft, + And bears him to eternal heat and drouth, + While still the toothsome morsel's in his mouth. + + G.W.M. REYNOLDS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MORROW OF GRANDEUR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Non, l'avenir n'est à personne!")</i> + + {V. ii., August, 1832.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sire, beware, the future's range + Is of God alone the power, + Naught below but augurs change, + E'en with ev'ry passing hour. + Future! mighty mystery! + All the earthly goods that be, + Fortune, glory, war's renown, + King or kaiser's sparkling crown, + Victory! with her burning wings, + Proud ambition's covetings,— + These may our grasp no more detain + Than the free bird who doth alight + Upon our roof, and takes its flight + High into air again. + + Nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord's command, + Avails t' unclasp the cold and closèd hand. + Thy voice to disenthrall, + Dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side! + Veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride, + Whom men "To-morrow" call. + + Oh, to-morrow! who may dare + Its realities to scan? + God to-morrow brings to bear + What to-day is sown by man. + 'Tis the lightning in its shroud, + 'Tis the star-concealing cloud, + Traitor, 'tis his purpose showing, + Engine, lofty tow'rs o'erthrowing, + Wand'ring star, its region changing, + "Lady of kingdoms," ever ranging. + To-morrow! 'Tis the rude display + Of the throne's framework, blank and cold, + That, rich with velvet, bright with gold, + Dazzles the eye to-day. + + To-morrow! 'tis the foaming war-horse falling; + To-morrow! thy victorious march appalling, + 'Tis the red fires from Moscow's tow'rs that wave; + 'Tis thine Old Guard strewing the Belgian plain; + 'Tis the lone island in th' Atlantic main: + To-morrow! 'tis the grave! + + Into capitals subdued + Thou mayst ride with gallant rein, + Cut the knots of civil feud + With the trenchant steel in twain; + With thine edicts barricade + Haughty Thames' o'er-freighted trade; + Fickle Victory's self enthrall, + Captive to thy trumpet call; + Burst the stoutest gates asunder; + Leave the names of brightest wonder, + Pale and dim, behind thee far; + And to exhaustless armies yield + Thy glancing spur,—o'er Europe's field + A glory-guiding star. + + God guards duration, if lends space to thee, + Thou mayst o'er-range mundane immensity, + Rise high as human head can rise sublime, + Snatch Europe from the stamp of Charlemagne, + Asia from Mahomet; but never gain + Power o'er the Morrow from the Lord of Time! + + <i>Fraser's Magazine.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EAGLET MOURNED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Encore si ce banni n'eût rien aimé sur terre.")</i> + + {V, iv., August, 1832.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Too hard Napoleon's fate! if, lone, + No being he had loved, no single one, + Less dark that doom had been. + But with the heart of might doth ever dwell + The heart of love! and in his island cell + Two things there were—I ween. + + Two things—a portrait and a map there were— + Here hung the pictured world, an infant there: + That framed his genius, this enshrined his love. + And as at eve he glanced round th' alcove, + Where jailers watched his very thoughts to spy, + What mused he <i>then</i>—what dream of years gone by + Stirred 'neath that discrowned brow, and fired that glistening eye? + + 'Twas not the steps of that heroic tale + That from Arcola marched to Montmirail + On Glory's red degrees; + Nor Cairo-pashas' steel-devouring steeds, + Nor the tall shadows of the Pyramids— + Ah! Twas not always these; + + 'Twas not the bursting shell, the iron sleet, + The whirlwind rush of battle 'neath his feet, + Through twice ten years ago, + When at his beck, upon that sea of steel + Were launched the rustling banners—there to reel + Like masts when tempests blow. + + 'Twas not Madrid, nor Kremlin of the Czar, + Nor Pharos on Old Egypt's coast afar, + Nor shrill <i>réveillé's</i> camp-awakening sound, + Nor bivouac couch'd its starry fires around, + Crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers, + Nor the red lancers 'mid their wood of spears + Blazing like baleful poppies 'mong the golden ears. + + No—'twas an infant's image, fresh and fair, + With rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there. + It lay beneath the smile, + Of her whose breast, soft-bending o'er its sleep, + Lingering upon that little lip doth keep + One pendent drop the while. + + Then, his sad head upon his hands inclined, + He wept; that father-heart all unconfined, + Outpoured in love alone. + My blessing on thy clay-cold head, poor child. + Sole being for whose sake his thoughts, beguiled, + Forgot the world's lost throne. + + <i>Fraser's Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INVOCATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + {V, vi., August, 1832.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Say, Lord! for Thou alone canst tell + Where lurks the good invisible + Amid the depths of discord's sea— + That seem, alas! so dark to me! + Oppressive to a mighty state, + Contentions, feuds, the people's hate— + But who dare question that which fate + Has ordered to have been? + Haply the earthquake may unfold + The resting-place of purest gold, + And haply surges up have rolled + The pearls that were unseen! + + G.W.M. REYNOLDS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OUTSIDE THE BALL-ROOM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Ainsi l'Hôtel de Ville illumine.")</i> + + {VI., May, 1833.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Behold the ball-room flashing on the sight, + From step to cornice one grand glare of light; + The noise of mirth and revelry resounds, + Like fairy melody on haunted grounds. + But who demands this profuse, wanton glee, + These shouts prolonged and wild festivity— + Not sure our city—web, more woe than bliss, + In any hour, requiring aught but this! + + Deaf is the ear of all that jewelled crowd + To sorrow's sob, although its call be loud. + Better than waste long nights in idle show, + To help the indigent and raise the low— + To train the wicked to forsake his way, + And find th' industrious work from day to day! + Better to charity those hours afford, + Which now are wasted at the festal board! + + And ye, O high-born beauties! in whose soul + Virtue resides, and Vice has no control; + Ye whom prosperity forbids to sin, + So fair without—so chaste, so pure within— + Whose honor Want ne'er threatened to betray, + Whose eyes are joyous, and whose heart is gay; + Around whose modesty a hundred arms, + Aided by pride, protect a thousand charms; + For you this ball is pregnant with delight; + As glitt'ring planets cheer the gloomy night:— + But, O, ye wist not, while your souls are glad, + How millions wander, homeless, sick and sad! + Hazard has placed you in a happy sphere, + And like your own to you all lots appear; + For blinded by the sun of bliss your eyes + Can see no dark horizon to the skies. + + Such is the chance of life! Each gallant thane, + Prince, peer, and noble, follow in your train;— + They praise your loveliness, and in your ear + They whisper pleasing things, but insincere; + Thus, as the moths enamoured of the light, + Ye seek these realms of revelry each night. + But as ye travel thither, did ye know + What wretches walk the streets through which you go. + Sisters, whose gewgaws glitter in the glare + Of your great lustre, all expectant there, + Watching the passing crowd with avid eye, + Till one their love, or lust, or shame may buy; + Or, with commingling jealousy and rage, + They mark the progress of your equipage; + And their deceitful life essays the while + To mask their woe beneath a sickly smile! + + G.W.M. REYNOLDS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PRAYER FOR FRANCE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("O Dieu, si vous avez la France.")</i> + + {VII., August, 1832.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O God! if France be still thy guardian care, + Oh! spare these mercenary combats, spare! + The thrones that now are reared but to be broke; + The rights we render, and anon revoke; + The muddy stream of laws, ideas, needs, + Flooding our social life as it proceeds; + Opposing tribunes, even when seeming one— + Soft, yielding plaster put in place of stone; + Wave chasing wave in endless ebb and flow; + War, darker still and deeper in its woe; + One party fall'n, successor scarce preludes, + Than, straight, new views their furious feuds; + The great man's pressure on the poor for gold, + Rumors uncertain, conflicts, crimes untold; + Dark systems hatched in secret and in fear, + Telling of hate and strife to every ear, + That even to midnight sleep no peace is given, + For murd'rous cannon through our streets are driven. + + J.S. MACRAE. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO CANARIS, THE GREEK PATRIOT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Canaris! nous t'avons oublié.")</i> + + {VIII., October, 1832.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Canaris! O Canaris! the poet's song + Has blameful left untold thy deeds too long! + But when the tragic actor's part is done, + When clamor ceases, and the fights are won, + When heroes realize what Fate decreed, + When chieftains mark no more which thousands bleed; + When they have shone, as clouded or as bright, + As fitful meteor in the heaven at night, + And when the sycophant no more proclaims + To gaping crowds the glory of their names,— + 'Tis then the mem'ries of warriors die, + And fall—alas!—into obscurity, + Until the poet, in whose verse alone + Exists a world—can make their actions known, + And in eternal epic measures, show + They are not yet forgotten here below. + And yet by us neglected! glory gloomed, + Thy name seems sealed apart, entombed, + Although our shouts to pigmies rise—no cries + To mark thy presence echo to the skies; + Farewell to Grecian heroes—silent is the lute, + And sets your sun without one Memnon bruit? + + There was a time men gave no peace + To cheers for Athens, Bozzaris, Leonidas, and Greece! + And Canaris' more-worshipped name was found + On ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart around. + But now is changed the scene! On hist'ry's page + Are writ o'er thine deeds of another age, + And thine are not remembered.—Greece, farewell! + The world no more thine heroes' deeds will tell. + + Not that this matters to a man like thee! + To whom is left the dark blue open sea, + Thy gallant bark, that o'er the water flies, + And the bright planet guiding in clear skies; + All these remain, with accident and strife, + Hope, and the pleasures of a roving life, + Boon Nature's fairest prospects—land and main— + The noisy starting, glad return again; + The pride of freeman on a bounding deck + Which mocks at dangers and despises wreck, + And e'en if lightning-pinions cleave the sea, + 'Tis all replete with joyousness to thee! + + Yes, these remain! blue sky and ocean blue, + Thine eagles with one sweep beyond the view— + The sun in golden beauty ever pure, + The distance where rich warmth doth aye endure— + Thy language so mellifluously bland, + Mixed with sweet idioms from Italia's strand, + As Baya's streams to Samos' waters glide + And with them mingle in one placid tide. + + Yes, these remain, and, Canaris! thy arms— + The sculptured sabre, faithful in alarms— + The broidered garb, the yataghan, the vest + Expressive of thy rank, to thee still rest! + And when thy vessel o'er the foaming sound + Is proud past storied coasts to blithely bound, + At once the point of beauty may restore + Smiles to thy lip, and smoothe thy brow once more. + + G.W.M. REYNOLDS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POLAND. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Seule au pied de la tour.")</i> + + {IX., September, 1833.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Alone, beneath the tower whence thunder forth + The mandates of the Tyrant of the North, + Poland's sad genius kneels, absorbed in tears, + Bound, vanquished, pallid with her fears— + Alas! the crucifix is all that's left + To her, of freedom and her sons bereft; + And on her royal robe foul marks are seen + Where Russian hectors' scornful feet have been. + Anon she hears the clank of murd'rous arms,— + The swordsmen come once more to spread alarms! + And while she weeps against the prison walls, + And waves her bleeding arm until it falls, + To France she hopeless turns her glazing eyes, + And sues her sister's succor ere she dies. + + G.W.M. REYNOLDS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INSULT NOT THE FALLEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Oh! n'insultez jamais une femme qui tombe.")</i> + + {XIV., Sept. 6, 1835.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I tell you, hush! no word of sneering scorn— + True, fallen; but God knows how deep her sorrow. + Poor girl! too many like her only born + To love one day—to sin—and die the morrow. + What know you of her struggles or her grief? + Or what wild storms of want and woe and pain + Tore down her soul from honor? As a leaf + From autumn branches, or a drop of rain + That hung in frailest splendor from a bough— + Bright, glistening in the sunlight of God's day— + So had she clung to virtue once. But now— + See Heaven's clear pearl polluted with earth's clay! + The sin is yours—with your accursed gold— + Man's wealth is master—woman's soul the slave! + Some purest water still the mire may hold. + Is there no hope for her—no power to save? + Yea, once again to draw up from the clay + The fallen raindrop, till it shine above, + Or save a fallen soul, needs but one ray + Of Heaven's sunshine, or of human love. + + W.C.K. WILDE. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MORNING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("L'aurore s'allume.")</i> + + {XX. a, December, 1834.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Morning glances hither, + Now the shade is past; + Dream and fog fly thither + Where Night goes at last; + Open eyes and roses + As the darkness closes; + And the sound that grows is + Nature walking fast. + + Murmuring all and singing, + Hark! the news is stirred, + Roof and creepers clinging, + Smoke and nest of bird; + Winds to oak-trees bear it, + Streams and fountains hear it, + Every breath and spirit + As a voice is heard. + + All takes up its story, + Child resumes his play, + Hearth its ruddy glory, + Lute its lifted lay. + Wild or out of senses, + Through the world immense is + Sound as each commences + Schemes of yesterday. + + W.M. HARDINGE. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONG OF LOVE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("S'il est un charmant gazon.")</i> + + {XXII, Feb. 18, 1834.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If there be a velvet sward + By dewdrops pearly drest, + Where through all seasons fairies guard + Flowers by bees carest, + Where one may gather, day and night, + Roses, honeysuckle, lily white, + I fain would make of it a site + For thy foot to rest. + + If there be a loving heart + Where Honor rules the breast, + Loyal and true in every part, + That changes ne'er molest, + Eager to run its noble race, + Intent to do some work of grace, + I fain would make of it a place + For thy brow to rest. + + And if there be of love a dream + Rose-scented as the west, + Which shows, each time it comes, a gleam,— + A something sweet and blest,— + A dream of which heaven is the pole, + A dream that mingles soul and soul, + I fain of it would make the goal + Where thy mind should rest. + + TORU DUTT. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWEET CHARMER.{1} + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("L'aube naît et ta porte est close.")</i> + + {XXIII., February, 18—.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Though heaven's gate of light uncloses, + Thou stirr'st not—thou'rt laid to rest, + Waking are thy sister roses, + One only dreamest on thy breast. + Hear me, sweet dreamer! + Tell me all thy fears, + Trembling in song, + But to break in tears. + + Lo! to greet thee, spirits pressing, + Soft music brings the gentle dove, + And fair light falleth like a blessing, + While my poor heart can bring thee only love. + Worship thee, angels love thee, sweet woman? + Yes; for that love perfects my soul. + None the less of heaven that my heart is human, + Blent in one exquisite, harmonious whole. + + H.B. FARNIE. + + {Footnote 1: Set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MORE STRONG THAN TIME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Puisque j'ai mis ma lèvre à ta coupe.")</i> + + {XXV., Jan. 1, 1835.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, + Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, + Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it, + And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade; + + Since it was given to me to hear one happy while, + The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, + Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, + Your lips upon my lips, and your gaze upon my eyes; + + Since I have known upon my forehead glance and gleam, + A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always, + Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream, + Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days; + + I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours, + Pass—pass upon your way, for I grow never old. + Flee to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers, + One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold. + + Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill + The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet. + My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill, + My soul more love than you can make my love forget. + + A. LANG. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROSES AND BUTTERFLIES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Roses et Papillons.")</i> + + {XXVII., Dec. 7, 1834.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The grave receives us all: + Ye butterflies and roses gay and sweet + Why do ye linger, say? + Will ye not dwell together as is meet? + Somewhere high in the air + Would thy wing seek a home 'mid sunny skies, + In mead or mossy dell— + If there thy odors longest, sweetest rise. + + Have where ye will your dwelling, + Or breath or tint whose praise we sing; + Butterfly shining bright, + Full-blown or bursting rosebud, flow'r or wing. + Dwell together ye fair, + 'Tis a boon to the loveliest given; + Perchance ye then may choose your home + On the earth or in heaven. + + W.C. WESTBROOK +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A SIMILE. + + <i>("Soyez comme l'oiseau.")</i> + + {XXXIII. vi.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thou art like the bird + That alights and sings + Though the frail spray bends— + For he knows he has wings. + + FANNY KEMBLE (BUTLER) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POET TO HIS WIFE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("À toi, toujours à toi.")</i> + + {XXXIX., 1823} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To thee, all time to thee, + My lyre a voice shall be! + Above all earthly fashion, + Above mere mundane rage, + Your mind made it my passion + To write for noblest stage. + + Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her—she + Was sister of my soul immortal, free! + My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource, + When green hoped not to gray to run its course; + She was enthronèd Virtue under heaven's dome, + My idol in the shrine of curtained home. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES.—1840. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BLINDED BOURBONS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Qui leur eût dit l'austère destineé?")</i> + + {II. v., November, 1836.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who <i>then</i>, to them{1} had told the Future's story? + Or said that France, low bowed before their glory, + One day would mindful be + Of them and of their mournful fate no more, + Than of the wrecks its waters have swept o'er + The unremembering sea? + + That their old Tuileries should see the fall + Of blazons from its high heraldic hall, + Dismantled, crumbling, prone;{2} + Or that, o'er yon dark Louvre's architrave{3} + A Corsican, as yet unborn, should grave + An eagle, then unknown? + + That gay St. Cloud another lord awaited, + Or that in scenes Le Nôtre's art created + For princely sport and ease, + Crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade, + Should browse the bark beneath the stately shade + Of the great Louis' trees? + + <i>Fraser's Magazine.</i> + + {Footnote 1: The young princes, afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.} + + {Footnote 2: The Tuileries, several times stormed by mobs, was so + irreparably injured by the Communists that, in 1882, the Paris Town + Council decided that the ruins should be cleared away.} + + {Footnote 3: After the Eagle and the Bee superseded the Lily-flowers, + the Third Napoleon's initial "N" flourished for two decades, but has + been excised or plastered over, the words "National Property" or + "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" being cut in the stone profusely.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO ALBERT DÜRER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Dans les vieilles forêts.")</i> + + {X., April 20, 1837.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Through ancient forests—where like flowing tide + The rising sap shoots vigor far and wide, + Mounting the column of the alder dark + And silv'ring o'er the birch's shining bark— + Hast thou not often, Albert Dürer, strayed + Pond'ring, awe-stricken—through the half-lit glade, + Pallid and trembling—glancing not behind + From mystic fear that did thy senses bind, + Yet made thee hasten with unsteady pace? + Oh, Master grave! whose musings lone we trace + Throughout thy works we look on reverently. + Amidst the gloomy umbrage thy mind's eye + Saw clearly, 'mong the shadows soft yet deep, + The web-toed faun, and Pan the green-eyed peep, + Who deck'd with flowers the cave where thou might'st rest, + Leaf-laden dryads, too, in verdure drest. + A strange weird world such forest was to thee, + Where mingled truth and dreams in mystery; + There leaned old ruminating pines, and there + The giant elms, whose boughs deformed and bare + A hundred rough and crooked elbows made; + And in this sombre group the wind had swayed, + Nor life—nor death—but life in death seemed found. + The cresses drink—the water flows—and round + Upon the slopes the mountain rowans meet, + And 'neath the brushwood plant their gnarled feet, + Intwining slowly where the creepers twine. + There, too, the lakes as mirrors brightly shine, + And show the swan-necked flowers, each line by line. + Chimeras roused take stranger shapes for thee, + The glittering scales of mailèd throat we see, + And claws tight pressed on huge old knotted tree; + While from a cavern dim the bright eyes glare. + Oh, vegetation! Spirit! Do we dare + Question of matter, and of forces found + 'Neath a rude skin-in living verdure bound. + Oh, Master—I, like thee, have wandered oft + Where mighty trees made arches high aloft, + But ever with a consciousness of strife, + A surging struggle of the inner life. + Ever the trembling of the grass I say, + And the boughs rocking as the breezes play, + Have stirred deep thoughts in a bewild'ring way. + Oh, God! alone Great Witness of all deeds, + Of thoughts and acts, and all our human needs, + God only knows how often in such scenes + Of savage beauty under leafy screens, + I've felt the mighty oaks had spirit dower— + Like me knew mirth and sorrow—sentient power, + And whisp'ring each to each in twilight dim, + Had hearts that beat—and owned a soul from Him! + + MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS MUSE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Puisqu'ici-bas tout âme.")</i> + + {XL, May 19, 1836.} + + Since everything below, + Doth, in this mortal state, + Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow + Communicate; + + Since all that lives and moves + Upon the earth, bestows + On what it seeks and what it loves + Its thorn or rose; + + Since April to the trees + Gives a bewitching sound, + And sombre night to grief gives ease, + And peace profound; + + Since day-spring on the flower + A fresh'ning drop confers, + And the fresh air on branch and bower + Its choristers; + + Since the dark wave bestows + A soft caress, imprest + On the green bank to which it goes + Seeking its rest; + + I give thee at this hour, + Thus fondly bent o'er thee, + The best of all the things in dow'r + That in me be. + + Receive,-poor gift, 'tis true, + Which grief, not joy, endears,— + My thoughts, that like a shower of dew, + Reach thee in tears. + + My vows untold receive, + All pure before thee laid; + Receive of all the days I live + The light or shade! + + My hours with rapture fill'd, + Which no suspicion wrongs; + And all the blandishments distill'd + From all my songs. + + My spirit, whose essay + Flies fearless, wild, and free, + And hath, and seeks, to guide its way + No star but thee. + + No pensive, dreamy Muse, + Who, though all else should smile, + Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose, + To weep the while. + + Oh, sweetest mine! this gift + Receive;—'tis throe alone;— + My heart, of which there's nothing left + When Love is gone! + + <i>Fraser's Magazine.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COW. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Devant la blanche ferme.")</i> + + {XV., May, 1837.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Before the farm where, o'er the porch, festoon + Wild creepers red, and gaffer sits at noon, + Whilst strutting fowl display their varied crests, + And the old watchdog slumberously rests, + They half-attentive to the clarion of their king, + Resplendent in the sunshine op'ning wing— + There stood a cow, with neck-bell jingling light, + Superb, enormous, dappled red and white— + Soft, gentle, patient as a hind unto its young, + Letting the children swarm until they hung + Around her, under—rustics with their teeth + Whiter than marble their ripe lips beneath, + And bushy hair fresh and more brown + Than mossy walls at old gates of a town, + Calling to one another with loud cries + For younger imps to be in at the prize; + Stealing without concern but tremulous with fear + They glance around lest Doll the maid appear;— + Their jolly lips—that haply cause some pain, + And all those busy fingers, pressing now and 'gain, + The teeming udders whose small, thousand pores + Gush out the nectar 'mid their laughing roars, + While she, good mother, gives and gives in heaps, + And never moves. Anon there creeps + A vague soft shiver o'er the hide unmarred, + As sharp they pull, she seems of stone most hard. + Dreamy of large eye, seeks she no release, + And shrinks not while there's one still to appease. + Thus Nature—refuge 'gainst the slings of fate! + Mother of all, indulgent as she's great! + Lets us, the hungered of each age and rank, + Shadow and milk seek in the eternal flank; + Mystic and carnal, foolish, wise, repair, + The souls retiring and those that dare, + Sages with halos, poets laurel-crowned, + All creep beneath or cluster close around, + And with unending greed and joyous cries, + From sources full, draw need's supplies, + Quench hearty thirst, obtain what must eftsoon + Form blood and mind, in freest boon, + Respire at length thy sacred flaming light, + From all that greets our ears, touch, scent or sight— + Brown leaves, blue mountains, yellow gleams, green sod— + Thou undistracted still dost dream of God. + + TORU DUTT. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOTHERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Regardez: les enfants.")</i> + + {XX., June, 1884.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See all the children gathered there, + Their mother near; so young, so fair, + An eider sister she might be, + And yet she hears, amid their games, + The shaking of their unknown names + In the dark urn of destiny. + + She wakes their smiles, she soothes their cares, + On that pure heart so like to theirs, + Her spirit with such life is rife + That in its golden rays we see, + Touched into graceful poesy, + The dull cold commonplace of life. + + Still following, watching, whether burn + The Christmas log in winter stern, + While merry plays go round; + Or streamlets laugh to breeze of May + That shakes the leaf to break away— + A shadow falling to the ground. + + If some poor man with hungry eyes + Her baby's coral bauble spies, + She marks his look with famine wild, + For Christ's dear sake she makes with joy + An alms-gift of the silver toy— + A smiling angel of the child. + + <i>Dublin University Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO SOME BIRDS FLOWN AWAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Enfants! Oh! revenez!")</i> + + {XXII, April, 1837} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Children, come back—come back, I say— + You whom my folly chased away + A moment since, from this my room, + With bristling wrath and words of doom! + What had you done, you bandits small, + With lips as red as roses all? + What crime?—what wild and hapless deed? + What porcelain vase by you was split + To thousand pieces? Did you need + For pastime, as you handled it, + Some Gothic missal to enrich + With your designs fantastical? + Or did your tearing fingers fall + On some old picture? Which, oh, which + Your dreadful fault? Not one of these; + Only when left yourselves to please + This morning but a moment here + 'Mid papers tinted by my mind + You took some embryo verses near— + Half formed, but fully well designed + To open out. Your hearts desire + Was but to throw them on the fire, + Then watch the tinder, for the sight + Of shining sparks that twinkle bright + As little boats that sail at night, + Or like the window lights that spring + From out the dark at evening. + + 'Twas all, and you were well content. + Fine loss was this for anger's vent— + A strophe ill made midst your play, + Sweet sound that chased the words away + In stormy flight. An ode quite new, + With rhymes inflated—stanzas, too, + That panted, moving lazily, + And heavy Alexandrine lines + That seemed to jostle bodily, + Like children full of play designs + That spring at once from schoolroom's form. + Instead of all this angry storm, + Another might have thanked you well + For saving prey from that grim cell, + That hollowed den 'neath journals great, + Where editors who poets flout + With their demoniac laughter shout. + And I have scolded you! What fate + For charming dwarfs who never meant + To anger Hercules! And I + Have frightened you!—My chair I sent + Back to the wall, and then let fly + A shower of words the envious use— + "Get out," I said, with hard abuse, + "Leave me alone—alone I say." + Poor man alone! Ah, well-a-day, + What fine result—what triumph rare! + As one turns from the coffin'd dead + So left you me:—I could but stare + Upon the door through which you fled— + I proud and grave—but punished quite. + And what care you for this my plight!— + You have recovered liberty, + Fresh air and lovely scenery, + The spacious park and wished-for grass; + The running stream, where you can throw + A blade to watch what comes to pass; + Blue sky, and all the spring can show; + Nature, serenely fair to see; + The book of birds and spirits free, + God's poem, worth much more than mine, + Where flowers for perfect stanzas shine— + Flowers that a child may pluck in play, + No harsh voice frightening it away. + And I'm alone—all pleasure o'er— + Alone with pedant called "Ennui," + For since the morning at my door + Ennui has waited patiently. + That docto-r-London born, you mark, + One Sunday in December dark, + Poor little ones—he loved you not, + And waited till the chance he got + To enter as you passed away, + And in the very corner where + You played with frolic laughter gay, + He sighs and yawns with weary air. + + What can I do? Shall I read books, + Or write more verse—or turn fond looks + Upon enamels blue, sea-green, + And white—on insects rare as seen + Upon my Dresden china ware? + Or shall I touch the globe, and care + To make the heavens turn upon + Its axis? No, not one—not one + Of all these things care I to do; + All wearies me—I think of you. + In truth with you my sunshine fled, + And gayety with your light tread— + Glad noise that set me dreaming still. + 'Twas my delight to watch your will, + And mark you point with finger-tips + To help your spelling out a word; + To see the pearls between your lips + When I your joyous laughter heard; + Your honest brows that looked so true, + And said "Oh, yes!" to each intent; + Your great bright eyes, that loved to view + With admiration innocent + My fine old Sèvres; the eager thought + That every kind of knowledge sought; + The elbow push with "Come and see!" + + Oh, certes! spirits, sylphs, there be, + And fays the wind blows often here; + The gnomes that squat the ceiling near, + In corners made by old books dim; + The long-backed dwarfs, those goblins grim + That seem at home 'mong vases rare, + And chat to them with friendly air— + Oh, how the joyous demon throng + Must all have laughed with laughter long + To see you on my rough drafts fall, + My bald hexameters, and all + The mournful, miserable band, + And drag them with relentless hand + From out their box, with true delight + To set them each and all a-light, + And then with clapping hands to lean + Above the stove and watch the scene, + How to the mass deformed there came + A soul that showed itself in flame! + + Bright tricksy children—oh, I pray + Come back and sing and dance away, + And chatter too—sometimes you may, + A giddy group, a big book seize— + Or sometimes, if it so you please, + With nimble step you'll run to me + And push the arm that holds the pen, + Till on my finished verse will be + A stroke that's like a steeple when + Seen suddenly upon a plain. + My soul longs for your breath again + To warm it. Oh, return—come here + With laugh and babble—and no fear + When with your shadow you obscure + The book I read, for I am sure, + Oh, madcaps terrible and dear, + That you were right and I was wrong. + But who has ne'er with scolding tongue + Blamed out of season. Pardon me! + You must forgive—for sad are we. + + The young should not be hard and cold + And unforgiving to the old. + Children each morn your souls ope out + Like windows to the shining day, + Oh, miracle that comes about, + The miracle that children gay + Have happiness and goodness too, + Caressed by destiny are you, + Charming you are, if you but play. + But we with living overwrought, + And full of grave and sombre thought, + Are snappish oft: dear little men, + We have ill-tempered days, and then, + Are quite unjust and full of care; + It rained this morning and the air + Was chill; but clouds that dimm'd the sky + Have passed. Things spited me, and why? + But now my heart repents. Behold + What 'twas that made me cross, and scold! + All by-and-by you'll understand, + When brows are mark'd by Time's stern hand; + Then you will comprehend, be sure, + When older—that's to say, less pure. + + The fault I freely own was mine. + But oh, for pardon now I pine! + Enough my punishment to meet, + You must forgive, I do entreat + With clasped hands praying—oh, come back, + Make peace, and you shall nothing lack. + See now my pencils—paper—here, + And pointless compasses, and dear + Old lacquer-work; and stoneware clear + Through glass protecting; all man's toys + So coveted by girls and boys. + Great China monsters—bodies much + Like cucumbers—you all shall touch. + I yield up all! my picture rare + Found beneath antique rubbish heap, + My great and tapestried oak chair + I will from you no longer keep. + You shall about my table climb, + And dance, or drag, without a cry + From me as if it were a crime. + Even I'll look on patiently + If you your jagged toys all throw + Upon my carved bench, till it show + The wood is torn; and freely too, + I'll leave in your own hands to view, + My pictured Bible—oft desired— + But which to touch your fear inspired— + With God in emperor's robes attired. + + Then if to see my verses burn, + Should seem to you a pleasant turn, + Take them to freely tear away + Or burn. But, oh! not so I'd say, + If this were Méry's room to-day. + That noble poet! Happy town, + Marseilles the Greek, that him doth own! + Daughter of Homer, fair to see, + Of Virgil's son the mother she. + To you I'd say, Hold, children all, + Let but your eyes on his work fall; + These papers are the sacred nest + In which his crooning fancies rest; + To-morrow winged to Heaven they'll soar, + For new-born verse imprisoned still + In manuscript may suffer sore + At your small hands and childish will, + Without a thought of bad intent, + Of cruelty quite innocent. + You wound their feet, and bruise their wings, + And make them suffer those ill things + That children's play to young birds brings. + + But mine! no matter what you do, + My poetry is all in you; + You are my inspiration bright + That gives my verse its purest light. + Children whose life is made of hope, + Whose joy, within its mystic scope, + Owes all to ignorance of ill, + You have not suffered, and you still + Know not what gloomy thoughts weigh down + The poet-writer weary grown. + What warmth is shed by your sweet smile! + How much he needs to gaze awhile + Upon your shining placid brow, + When his own brow its ache doth know; + With what delight he loves to hear + Your frolic play 'neath tree that's near, + Your joyous voices mixing well + With his own song's all-mournful swell! + Come back then, children! come to me, + If you wish not that I should be + As lonely now that you're afar + As fisherman of Etrétat, + Who listless on his elbow leans + Through all the weary winter scenes, + As tired of thought—as on Time flies— + And watching only rainy skies! + + MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY THOUGHTS OF YE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("À quoi je songe?")</i> + + {XXIII., July, 1836.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What do I dream of? Far from the low roof, + Where now ye are, children, I dream of you; + Of your young heads that are the hope and crown + Of my full summer, ripening to its fall. + Branches whose shadow grows along my wall, + Sweet souls scarce open to the breath of day, + Still dazzled with the brightness of your dawn. + I dream of those two little ones at play, + Making the threshold vocal with their cries, + Half tears, half laughter, mingled sport and strife, + Like two flowers knocked together by the wind. + Or of the elder two—more anxious thought— + Breasting already broader waves of life, + A conscious innocence on either face, + My pensive daughter and my curious boy. + Thus do I dream, while the light sailors sing, + At even moored beneath some steepy shore, + While the waves opening all their nostrils breathe + A thousand sea-scents to the wandering wind, + And the whole air is full of wondrous sounds, + From sea to strand, from land to sea, given back + Alone and sad, thus do I dream of you. + Children, and house and home, the table set, + The glowing hearth, and all the pious care + Of tender mother, and of grandsire kind; + And while before me, spotted with white sails, + The limpid ocean mirrors all the stars, + And while the pilot, from the infinite main, + Looks with calm eye into the infinite heaven, + I dreaming of you only, seek to scan + And fathom all my soul's deep love for you— + Love sweet, and powerful, and everlasting— + And find that the great sea is small beside it. + + <i>Dublin University Magazine.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BEACON IN THE STORM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Quels sont ces bruits sourds?")</i> + + {XXIV., July 17, 1836.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hark to that solemn sound! + It steals towards the strand.— + Whose is that voice profound + Which mourns the swallowed land, + With moans, + Or groans, + New threats of ruin close at hand? + It is Triton—the storm to scorn + Who doth wind his sonorous horn. + + How thick the rain to-night! + And all along the coast + The sky shows naught of light + Is it a storm, my host? + Too soon + The boon + Of pleasant weather will be lost + Yes, 'tis Triton, etc. + + Are seamen on that speck + Afar in deepening dark? + Is that a splitting deck + Of some ill-fated bark? + Fend harm! + Send calm! + O Venus! show thy starry spark! + Though 'tis Triton, etc. + + The thousand-toothèd gale,— + Adventurers too bold!— + Rips up your toughest sail + And tears your anchor-hold. + You forge + Through surge, + To be in rending breakers rolled. + While old Triton, etc. + + Do sailors stare this way, + Cramped on the Needle's sheaf, + To hail the sudden ray + Which promises relief? + Then, bright; + Shine, light! + Of hope upon the beacon reef! + Though 'tis Triton, etc. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVE'S TREACHEROUS POOL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Jeune fille, l'amour c'est un miroir.")</i> + + {XXVI., February, 1835.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Young maiden, true love is a pool all mirroring clear, + Where coquettish girls come to linger in long delight, + For it banishes afar from the face all the clouds that besmear + The soul truly bright; + But tempts you to ruffle its surface; drawing your foot + To subtilest sinking! and farther and farther the brink + That vainly you snatch—for repentance, 'tis weed without root,— + And struggling, you sink! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0088" id="link2H_4_0088"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ROSE AND THE GRAVE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("La tombe dit à la rose.")</i> + + {XXXI., June 3, 1837} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Grave said to the rose + "What of the dews of dawn, + Love's flower, what end is theirs?" + "And what of spirits flown, + The souls whereon doth close + The tomb's mouth unawares?" + The Rose said to the Grave. + + The Rose said: "In the shade + From the dawn's tears is made + A perfume faint and strange, + Amber and honey sweet." + "And all the spirits fleet + Do suffer a sky-change, + More strangely than the dew, + To God's own angels new," + The Grave said to the Rose. + + A. LANG. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES.—1840. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOLYROOD PALACE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("O palais, sois bénié.")</i> + + {II., June, 1839.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Palace and ruin, bless thee evermore! + Grateful we bow thy gloomy tow'rs before; + For the old King of France{1} hath found in thee + That melancholy hospitality + Which in their royal fortune's evil day, + Stuarts and Bourbons to each other pay. + + <i>Fraser's Magazine.</i> + + {Footnote 1: King Charles X.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HUMBLE HOME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("L'église est vaste et haute.")</i> + + {IV., June 29, 1839.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Church{1} is vast; its towering pride, its steeples loom on high; + The bristling stones with leaf and flower are sculptured wondrously; + The portal glows resplendent with its "rose," + And 'neath the vault immense at evening swarm + Figures of angel, saint, or demon's form, + As oft a fearful world our dreams disclose. + But not the huge Cathedral's height, nor yet its vault sublime, + Nor porch, nor glass, nor streaks of light, nor shadows deep with time; + Nor massy towers, that fascinate mine eyes; + No, 'tis that spot—the mind's tranquillity— + Chamber wherefrom the song mounts cheerily, + Placed like a joyful nest well nigh the skies. + + Yea! glorious is the Church, I ween, but Meekness dwelleth here; + Less do I love the lofty oak than mossy nest it bear; + More dear is meadow breath than stormy wind: + And when my mind for meditation's meant, + The seaweed is preferred to the shore's extent,— + The swallow to the main it leaves behind. + + <i>Author of "Critical Essays."</i> + + {Footnote 1: The Cathedral Nôtre Dame of Paris, which is the scene of the + author's romance, "Nôtre Dame."} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("O dix-huitième siècle!")</i> + + {IV. vi} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Eighteenth Century! by Heaven chastised! + Godless thou livedst, by God thy doom was fixed. + Thou in one ruin sword and sceptre mixed, + Then outraged love, and pity's claim despised. + Thy life a banquet—but its board a scaffold at the close, + Where far from Christ's beatic reign, Satanic deeds arose! + Thy writers, like thyself, by good men scorned— + Yet, from thy crimes, renown has decked thy name, + As the smoke emplumes the furnace flame, + A revolution's deeds have thine adorned! + + <i>Author of "Critical Essays."</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STILL BE A CHILD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("O vous que votre âge défende")</i> + + {IX., February, 1840.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In youthful spirits wild, + Smile, for all beams on thee; + Sport, sing, be still the child, + The flower, the honey-bee. + + Bring not the future near, + For Joy too soon declines— + What is man's mission here? + Toil, where no sunlight shines! + + Our lot is hard, we know; + From eyes so gayly beaming, + Whence rays of beauty flow, + Salt tears most oft are streaming. + + Free from emotions past, + All joy and hope possessing, + With mind in pureness cast, + Sweet ignorance confessing. + + Plant, safe from winds and showers, + Heart with soft visions glowing, + In childhood's happy hours + A mother's rapture showing. + + Loved by each anxious friend, + No carking care within— + When summer gambols end, + My winter sports begin. + + Sweet poesy from heaven + Around thy form is placed, + A mother's beauty given, + By father's thought is graced! + + Seize, then, each blissful second, + Live, for joy <i>sinks in night</i>, + And those whose tale is reckoned, + Have had their days of light. + + Then, oh! before we part, + The poet's blessing take, + Ere bleeds that aged heart, + Or child the woman make. + + <i>Dublin University Magazine</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POOL AND THE SOUL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Comme dans les étangs.")</i> + + {X., May, 1839.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As in some stagnant pool by forest-side, + In human souls two things are oft descried; + The sky,—which tints the surface of the pool + With all its rays, and all its shadows cool; + The basin next,—where gloomy, dark and deep, + Through slime and mud black reptiles vaguely creep. + + R.F. HODGSON +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0095" id="link2H_4_0095"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + YE MARINERS WHO SPREAD YOUR SAILS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Matelôts, vous déploirez les voiles.")</i> + + {XVI., May 5, 1839.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye mariners! ye mariners! each sail to the breeze unfurled, + In joy or sorrow still pursue your course around the world; + And when the stars next sunset shine, ye anxiously will gaze + Upon the shore, a friend or foe, as the windy quarter lays. + + Ye envious souls, with spiteful tooth, the statue's base will bite; + Ye birds will sing, ye bending boughs with verdure glad the sight; + The ivy root in the stone entwined, will cause old gates to fall; + The church-bell sound to work or rest the villagers will call. + + Ye glorious oaks will still increase in solitude profound, + Where the far west in distance lies as evening veils around; + Ye willows, to the earth your arms in mournful trail will bend, + And back again your mirror'd forms the water's surface send. + + Ye nests will oscillate beneath the youthful progeny; + Embraced in furrows of the earth the germing grain will lie; + Ye lightning-torches still your streams will cast into the air, + Which like a troubled spirit's course float wildly here and there. + + Ye thunder-peals will God proclaim, as doth the ocean wave; + Ye violets will nourish still the flower that April gave; + Upon your ambient tides will be man's sternest shadow cast; + Your waters ever will roll on when man himself is past. + + All things that are, or being have, or those that mutely lie, + Have each its course to follow out, or object to descry; + Contributing its little share to that stupendous whole, + Where with man's teeming race combined creation's wonders roll. + + The poet, too, will contemplate th' Almighty Father's love, + Who to our restless minds, with light and darkness from above, + Hath given the heavens that glorious urn of tranquil majesty, + Whence in unceasing stores we draw calm and serenity. + + <i>Author of "Critical Essays."</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0096" id="link2H_4_0096"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON A FLEMISH WINDOW-PANE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("J'aime le carillon dans tes cités antiques.")</i> + + {XVIII., August, 1837.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Within thy cities of the olden time + Dearly I love to list the ringing chime, + Thou faithful guardian of domestic worth, + Noble old Flanders! where the rigid North + A flush of rich meridian glow doth feel, + Caught from reflected suns of bright Castile. + The chime, the clinking chime! To Fancy's eye— + Prompt her affections to personify— + It is the fresh and frolic hour, arrayed + In guise of Andalusian dancing maid, + Appealing by a crevice fine and rare, + As of a door oped in "th' incorporal air." + She comes! o'er drowsy roofs, inert and dull, + Shaking her lap, of silv'ry music full, + Rousing without remorse the drones abed, + Tripping like joyous bird with tiniest tread, + Quiv'ring like dart that trembles in the targe, + By a frail crystal stair, whose viewless marge + Bears her slight footfall, tim'rous half, yet free, + In innocent extravagance of glee + The graceful elf alights from out the spheres, + While the quick spirit—thing of eyes and ears— + As now she goes, now comes, mounts, and anon + Descends, those delicate degrees upon, + Hears her melodious spirit from step to step run on. + + <i>Fraser's Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0097" id="link2H_4_0097"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PRECEPTOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Homme chauve et noir.")</i> + + {XIX., May, 1839.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A gruesome man, bald, clad in black, + Who kept us youthful drudges in the track, + Thinking it good for them to leave home care, + And for a while a harsher yoke to bear; + Surrender all the careless ease of home, + And be forbid from schoolyard bounds to roam; + For this with blandest smiles he softly asks + That they with him will prosecute their tasks; + Receives them in his solemn chilly lair, + The rigid lot of discipline to share. + At dingy desks they toil by day; at night + To gloomy chambers go uncheered by light, + Where pillars rudely grayed by rusty nail + Of heavy hours reveal the weary tale; + Where spiteful ushers grin, all pleased to make + Long scribbled lines the price of each mistake. + By four unpitying walls environed there + The homesick students pace the pavements bare. + + E.E. FREWER +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0098" id="link2H_4_0098"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GASTIBELZA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Gastibelza, l'homme à la carabine.")</i> + + {XXII., March, 1837.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gastibelza, with gun the measure beating, + Would often sing: + "Has one o' ye with sweet Sabine been meeting, + As, gay, ye bring + Your songs and steps which, by the music, + Are reconciled— + Oh! this chill wind across the mountain rushing + Will drive me wild! + + "You stare as though you hardly knew my lady— + Sabine's her name! + Her dam inhabits yonder cavern shady, + A witch of shame, + Who shrieks o' nights upon the Haunted Tower, + With horrors piled— + Oh! this chill wind, etc. + + "Sing on and leap—enjoying all the favors + Good heaven sends; + She, too, was young—her lips had peachy savors + With honey blends; + Give to that hag—not always old—a penny, + Though crime-defiled— + Oh! this chill wind, etc. + + "The queen beside her looked a wench uncomely, + When, near to-night, + She proudly stalked a-past the maids so homely, + In bodice tight + And collar old as reign of wicked Julian, + By fiend beguiled— + Oh! this chill wind, etc. + + "The king himself proclaimed her peerless beauty + Before the court, + And held it were to win a kiss his duty + To give a fort, + Or, more, to sign away all bright Dorado, + Tho' gold-plate tiled— + Oh! this chill wind, etc. + + "Love her? at least, I know I am most lonely + Without her nigh; + I'm but a hound to follow her, and only + At her feet die. + I'd gayly spend of toilsome years a dozen— + A felon styled— + Oh! this chill wind, etc. + + "One summer day when long—so long? I'd missed her, + She came anew, + To play i' the fount alone but for her sister, + And bared to view + The finest, rosiest, most tempting ankle, + Like that of child— + Oh! this chill wind, etc. + + "When I beheld her, I—a lowly shepherd— + Grew in my mind + Till I was Caesar—she that crownèd leopard + He crouched behind, + No Roman stern, but in her silken leashes + A captive mild— + Oh! this chill wind, etc. + + "Yet dance and sing, tho' night be thickly falling;— + In selfsame time + Poor Sabine heard in ecstasy the calling, + In winning rhyme, + Of Saldane's earl so noble, ay, and wealthy, + Name e'er reviled— + Oh! this chill wind, etc. + + "(Let me upon this bench be shortly resting, + So weary, I!) + That noble bore her smiling, unresisting, + By yonder high + And ragged road that snakes towards the summit + Where crags are piled— + Oh! this chill wind, etc. + + "I saw her pass beside my lofty station— + A glance—'twas all! + And yet I loathe my daily honest ration, + The air's turned gall! + My soul's in chase, my body chafes to wander— + My dagger's filed— + Oh! this chill wind may change, and o'er the mountain + May drive me wild!" + + HENRY L. WILLIAMS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0099" id="link2H_4_0099"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GUITAR SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Comment, disaient-ils.")</i> + + {XXIII., July 18, 1838.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How shall we flee sorrow—flee sorrow? said he. + How, how! How shall we flee sorrow—flee sorrow? said he. + How—how—how? answered she. + + How shall we see pleasure—see pleasure? said he. + How, how! How shall we see pleasure—see pleasure? said he. + Dream—dream—dream! answered she. + + How shall we be happy—be happy? said he. + How, how! How shall we be happy—be happy? said he. + Love—love—love! whispered she. + + EVELYN JERROLD +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0100" id="link2H_4_0100"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COME WHEN I SLEEP. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Oh, quand je dors.")</i> + + {XXVII.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! when I sleep, come near my resting-place, + As Laura came to bless her poet's heart, + And let thy breath in passing touch my face— + At once a space + My lips will part. + + And on my brow where too long weighed supreme + A vision—haply spent now—black as night, + Let thy look as a star arise and beam— + At once my dream + Will seem of light. + + Then press my lips, where plays a flame of bliss— + A pure and holy love-light—and forsake + The angel for the woman in a kiss— + At once, I wis, + My soul will wake! + + WM. W. TOMLINSON. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0101" id="link2H_4_0101"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EARLY LOVE REVISITED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("O douleur! j'ai voulu savoir.")</i> + + {XXXIV. i., October, 183-.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have wished in the grief of my heart to know + If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear, + And to see what this beautiful valley could show + Of all that was once to my soul most dear. + In how short a span doth all Nature change, + How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene— + And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range, + The links that bound our hearts to the scene. + + Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste; + The fir is felled that our names once bore; + Our rows of roses, by urchins' haste, + Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er. + The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride, + She so gayly drank, from the wood descending; + In her fairy hand was transformed the tide, + And it turned to pearls through her fingers wending + + The wild, rugged path is paved with spars, + Where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced, + When so small were the prints that the surface mars, + That they seemed <i>to smile</i> ere by mine effaced. + The bank on the side of the road, day by day, + Where of old she awaited my loved approach, + Is now become the traveller's way + To avoid the track of the thundering coach. + + Here the forest contracts, there the mead extends, + Of all that was ours, there is little left— + Like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds, + Of all souvenirs is the place bereft. + Do we live no more—is our hour then gone? + Will it give back naught to our hungry cry? + The breeze answers my call with a mocking tone, + The house that was mine makes no reply. + + True! others shall pass, as we have passed, + As we have come, so others shall meet, + And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste, + Shall others continue, but never complete. + For none upon earth can achieve his scheme, + The best as the worst are futile here: + We awake at the selfsame point cf the dream— + All is here begun, and finished elsewhere. + + Yes! others shall come in the bloom of the heart, + To enjoy in this pure and happy retreat, + All that nature to timid love can impart + Of solemn repose and communion sweet. + In <i>our</i> fields, in <i>our</i> paths, shall strangers stray, + In <i>thy</i> wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost, + And other fair forms in the stream shall play + Which of old thy delicate feet have crossed. + + <i>Author of "Critical Essays."</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0102" id="link2H_4_0102"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWEET MEMORY OF LOVE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Toutes les passions s'éloignent avec l'âge.")</i> + + {XXXIV. ii., October, 183-.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As life wanes on, the passions slow depart, + One with his grinning mask, one with his steel; + Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art, + Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill. + But naught can Love's all charming power efface, + That light, our misty tracks suspended o'er, + In joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace, + The young may curse thee, but the old adore. + + But when the weight of years bow down the head, + And man feels all his energies decline, + His projects gone, himself tomb'd with the dead, + Where virtues lie, nor more illusions shine, + When all our lofty thoughts dispersed and o'er, + We count within our hearts so near congealed, + Each grief that's past, each dream, exhausted ore! + As counting dead upon the battle-field. + + As one who walks by the lamp's flickering blaze, + Far from the hum of men, the joys of earth— + Our mind arrives at last by tortuous ways, + At that drear gulf where but despair has birth. + E'en there, amid the darkness of that night, + When all seems closing round in empty air, + Is seen through thickening gloom one trembling light! + 'Tis Love's sweet memory that lingers there! + + <i>Author of "Critical Essays."</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0103" id="link2H_4_0103"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MARBLE FAUN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Il semblait grelotter.")</i> + + {XXXVI., December, 1837.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen. + 'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass + Of leafless branches, with a blackened back + And a green foot—an isolated Faun + In old deserted park, who, bending forward, + Half-merged himself in the entangled boughs, + Half in his marble settings. He was there, + Pensive, and bound to earth; and, as all things + Devoid of movement, he was there—forgotten. + + Trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts— + Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird, + And, like himself, grown old in that same place. + Through the dark network of their undergrowth, + Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown. + Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night + Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist. + This—nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood. + + Poor, helpless marble, how I've pitied it! + Less often man—the harder of the two. + + So, then, without a word that might offend + His ear deformed—for well the marble hears + The voice of thought—I said to him: "You hail + From the gay amorous age. O Faun, what saw you + When you were happy? Were you of the Court? + + "Speak to me, comely Faun, as you would speak + To tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass. + Have you, O Greek, O mocker of old days, + Have you not sometimes with that oblique eye + Winked at the Farnese Hercules?—Alone, + Have you, O Faun, considerately turned + From side to side when counsel-seekers came, + And now advised as shepherd, now as satyr?— + Have you sometimes, upon this very bench, + Seen, at mid-day, Vincent de Paul instilling + Grace into Gondi?—Have you ever thrown + That searching glance on Louis with Fontange, + On Anne with Buckingham; and did they not + Start, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forth + From corner of the wood?—Was your advice + As to the thyrsis or the ivy asked, + When, in grand ballet of fantastic form, + God Phoebus, or God Pan, and all his court, + Turned the fair head of the proud Montespan, + Calling her Amaryllis?—La Fontaine, + Flying the courtiers' ears of stone, came he, + Tears on his eyelids, to reveal to you + The sorrows of his nymphs of Vaux?—What said + Boileau to you—to you—O lettered Faun, + Who once with Virgil, in the Eclogue, held + That charming dialogue?—Say, have you seen + Young beauties sporting on the sward?—Have you + Been honored with a sight of Molière + In dreamy mood?—Has he perchance, at eve, + When here the thinker homeward went, has he, + Who—seeing souls all naked—could not fear + Your nudity, in his inquiring mind, + Confronted you with Man?" + + Under the thickly-tangled branches, thus + Did I speak to him; he no answer gave. + + I shook my head, and moved myself away; + Then, from the copses, and from secret caves + Hid in the wood, methought a ghostly voice + Came forth and woke an echo in my souls + As in the hollow of an amphora. + + "Imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say, + "What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken Fauns + In peace beneath their trees! Dost thou not know, + Poet, that ever it is impious deemed, + In desert spots where drowsy shades repose— + Though love itself might prompt thee—to shake down + The moss that hangs from ruined centuries, + And, with the vain noise of throe ill-timed words, + To mar the recollections of the dead?" + + Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist + I hurried, dreaming of the vanished days, + And still behind me—hieroglyph obscure + Of antique alphabet—the lonely Faun + Held to his laughter, through the falling night. + + I went my way; but yet—in saddened spirit + Pondering on all that had my vision crossed, + Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time— + Through all, at distance, would my fancy see, + In the woods, statues; shadows in the past! + + WILLIAM YOUNG +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A LOVE FOR WINGED THINGS. + + {XXXVII., April 12, 1840.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My love flowed e'er for things with wings. + When boy I sought for forest fowl, + And caged them in rude rushes' mesh, + And fed them with my breakfast roll; + So that, though fragile were the door, + They rarely fled, and even then + Would flutter back at faintest call! + + Man-grown, I charm for men. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0104" id="link2H_4_0104"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BABY'S SEASIDE GRAVE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Vieux lierre, frais gazon.")</i> + + {XXXVIII., 1840.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brown ivy old, green herbage new; + Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle; + An ancient chapel where a crew, + Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle. + A far-off forest's darkling frown, + Which makes the prudent start and tremble, + Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down, + And clouds in demon hordes assemble. + + Land birds which twit the mews that scream + Round walls where lolls the languid lizard; + Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream + Past caves fit for an ocean wizard. + Alow, aloft, no lull—all life, + But far aside its whirls are keeping, + As wishfully to let its strife + Spare still the mother vainly weeping + O'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0105" id="link2H_4_0105"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LES CHÂTIMENTS.—1853. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0106" id="link2H_4_0106"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INDIGNATION! + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Toi qu'aimais Juvénal.")</i> + + {Nox (PRELUDE) ix., Jersey, November, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thou who loved Juvenal, and filed + His style so sharp to scar imperial brows, + And lent the lustre lightening + The gloom in Dante's murky verse that flows— + Muse Indignation! haste, and help + My building up before this roseate realm, + And its so fruitless victories, + Whence transient shame Right's prophets overwhelm, + So many pillories, deserved! + That eyes to come will pry without avail, + Upon the wood impenetrant, + And spy no glimmer of its tarnished tale. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0107" id="link2H_4_0107"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IMPERIAL REVELS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Courtisans! attablés dans le splendide orgie.")</i> + + {Bk. I. x., Jersey, December, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread— + The board that groans with shame and plate, + Still fawning to the sham-crowned head + That hopes front brazen turneth fate! + Drink till the comer last is full, + And never hear in revels' lull, + Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet, + Whilst I gnaw at the crust + Of Exile in the dust— + But <i>Honor</i> makes it sweet! + + Ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane, + Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief, + In blazing <i>cafés</i> spend the gain, + But draw the blind, lest at <i>his</i> thief + Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance + And interrupts with steel the dance! + But let him toilsomely tramp by, + As I myself afar + Follow no gilded car + In ways of <i>Honesty</i>. + + Ye troopers who shot mothers down, + And marshals whose brave cannonade + Broke infant arms and split the stone + Where slumbered age and guileless maid— + Though blood is in the cup you fill, + Pretend it "rosy" wine, and still + Hail Cannon "King!" and Steel the "Queen!" + But I prefer to sup + From Philip Sidney's cup— + True soldier's draught serene. + + Oh, workmen, seen by me sublime, + When from the tyrant wrenched ye peace, + Can you be dazed by tinselled crime, + And spy no wolf beneath the fleece? + Build palaces where Fortunes feast, + And bear your loads like well-trained beast, + Though once such masters you made flee! + But then, like me, you ate + Food of a blessed <i>fête</i>— + The bread of <i>Liberty</i>! + + H.L.W. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0108" id="link2H_4_0108"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POOR LITTLE CHILDREN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("La femelle! elle est morte.")</i> + + {Bk. I. xiii., Jersey, February, 1853.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mother birdie stiff and cold, + Puss has hushed the other's singing; + Winds go whistling o'er the wold,— + Empty nest in sport a-flinging. + Poor little birdies! + + Faithless shepherd strayed afar, + Playful dog the gadflies catching; + Wolves bound boldly o'er the bar, + Not a friend the fold is watching— + Poor little lambkins! + + Father into prison fell, + Mother begging through the parish; + Baby's cot they, too, will sell,— + Who will now feed, clothe and cherish? + Poor little children! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0109" id="link2H_4_0109"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APOSTROPHE TO NATURE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("O Soleil!")</i> + + {Bk. II. iv., Anniversary of the Coup d'État, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Sun! thou countenance divine! + Wild flowers of the glen, + Caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine + Has pierced not, far from men; + Ye sacred hills and antique rocks, + Ye oaks that worsted time, + Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks + Hurl up in storms sublime; + And sky above, unruflfed blue, + Chaste rills that alway ran + From stainless source a course still true, + What think ye of this man? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0110" id="link2H_4_0110"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NAPOLEON "THE LITTLE." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Ah! tu finiras bien par hurler!")</i> + + {Bk. III. ii., Jersey, August, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How well I knew this stealthy wolf would howl, + When in the eagle talons ta'en in air! + Aglow, I snatched thee from thy prey—thou fowl— + I held thee, abject conqueror, just where + All see the stigma of a fitting name + As deeply red as deeply black thy shame! + And though thy matchless impudence may frame + Some mask of seeming courage—spite thy sneer, + And thou assurest sloth and skunk: "It does not smart!" + Thou feel'st it burning, in and in,—and fear + None will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0111" id="link2H_4_0111"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FACT OR FABLE? + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (BISMARCK AND NAPOLEON III.) + + <i>("Un jour, sentant un royal appétit.")</i> + + {Bk. III. iii., Jersey, September, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One fasting day, itched by his appetite, + A monkey took a fallen tiger's hide, + And, where the wearer had been savage, tried + To overpass his model. Scratch and bite + Gave place, however, to mere gnash of teeth and screams, + But, as he prowled, he made his hearers fly + With crying often: "See the Terror of your dreams!" + Till, for too long, none ventured thither nigh. + Left undisturbed to snatch, and clog his brambled den, + With sleepers' bones and plumes of daunted doves, + And other spoil of beasts as timid as the men, + Who shrank when he mock-roared, from glens and groves— + He begged his fellows view the crannies crammed with pelf + Sordid and tawdry, stained and tinselled things, + As ample proof he was the Royal Tiger's self! + Year in, year out, thus still he purrs and sings + Till tramps a butcher by—he risks his head— + In darts the hand and crushes out the yell, + And plucks the hide—as from a nut the shell— + He holds him nude, and sneers: "An ape you dread!" + + H.L.W. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A LAMENT. + + <i>("Sentiers où l'herbe se balance.")</i> + + {Bk. III. xi., July, 1853.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O paths whereon wild grasses wave! + O valleys! hillsides! forests hoar! + Why are ye silent as the grave? + For One, who came, and comes no more! + + Why is thy window closed of late? + And why thy garden in its sear? + O house! where doth thy master wait? + I only know he is not here. + + Good dog! thou watchest; yet no hand + Will feed thee. In the house is none. + Whom weepest thou? child! My father. And + O wife! whom weepest thou? The Gone. + + Where is he gone? Into the dark.— + O sad, and ever-plaining surge! + Whence art thou? From the convict-bark. + And why thy mournful voice? A dirge. + + EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0112" id="link2H_4_0112"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NO ASSASSINATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Laissons le glaive à Rome.")</i> + + {Bk. III. xvi., October, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pray Rome put up her poniard! + And Sparta sheathe the sword; + Be none too prompt to punish, + And cast indignant word! + Bear back your spectral Brutus + From robber Bonaparte; + Time rarely will refute us + Who doom the hateful heart. + + Ye shall be o'ercontented, + My banished mates from home, + But be no rashness vented + Ere time for joy shall come. + No crime can outspeed Justice, + Who, resting, seems delayed— + Full faith accord the angel + Who points the patient blade. + + The traitor still may nestle + In balmy bed of state, + But mark the Warder, watching + His guardsman at his gate. + He wears the crown, a monarch— + Of knaves and stony hearts; + But though they're blessed by Senates, + None can escape the darts! + + Though shored by spear and crozier, + All know the arrant cheat, + And shun the square of pavement + Uncertain at his feet! + Yea, spare the wretch, each brooding + And secret-leaguers' chief, + And make no pistol-target + Of stars upon the thief. + + The knell of God strikes seldom + But in the aptest hour; + And when the life is sweetest, + The worm will feel His power! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0113" id="link2H_4_0113"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DESPATCH OF THE DOOM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Pendant que dans l'auberge.")</i> + + {Bk. IV. xiii., Jersey, November, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink, + Upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink? + Yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring sturdy steed, + A mute and grisly rider is trampling grass and weed, + And by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear, + I known it is <i>the Future</i>—God's Justicer is here! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0114" id="link2H_4_0114"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SEAMAN'S SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Adieu, patrie.")</i> + + {Bk. V. ix., Aug. 1, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Farewell the strand, + The sails expand + Above! + Farewell the land + We love! + Farewell, old home where apples swing! + Farewell, gay song-birds on the wing! + + Farewell, riff-raff + Of Customs' clerks who laugh + And shout: + "Farewell!" We'll quaff + One bout + To thee, young lass, with kisses sweet! + Farewell, my dear—the ship flies fleet! + + The fog shuts out the last fond peep, + As 'neath the prow the cast drops weep. + Farewell, old home, young lass, the bird! + The whistling wind alone is heard: + Farewell! Farewell! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0115" id="link2H_4_0115"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Il neigeait.")</i> + + {Bk. V. xiii., Nov. 25-30, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red! + For once the eagle was hanging its head. + Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back + On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black. + The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign + Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain. + Nor chief nor banner in order could keep, + The wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep. + The wings from centre could hardly be known + Through snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown, + Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn + Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn: + Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode + Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad. + The shells and bullets came down with the snow + As though the heavens hated these poor troops below. + Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold, + Who ne'er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold + Marched stern; to grizzled moustache hoarfrost clung + 'Neath banners that in leaden masses hung. + + It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breeze + Whistled upon the glassy endless seas, + Where naked feet on, on for ever went, + With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent. + They were not living troops as seen in war, + But merely phantoms of a dream, afar + In darkness wandering, amid the vapor dim,— + A mystery; of shadows a procession grim, + Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim. + Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold + Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold, + A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense, + A shroud of magnitude for host immense; + Till every one felt as if left alone + In a wide wilderness where no light shone, + To die, with pity none, and none to see + That from this mournful realm none should get free. + Their foes the frozen North and Czar—That, worst. + Cannon were broken up in haste accurst + To burn the frames and make the pale fire high, + Where those lay down who never woke or woke to die. + Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled + Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread. + + 'Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised + O'er regiments. And History, amazed, + Could not record the ruin of this retreat, + Unlike a downfall known before or the defeat + Of Hannibal—reversed and wrapped in gloom! + Of Attila, when nations met their doom! + Perished an army—fled French glory then, + Though there the Emperor! he stood and gazed + At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed + In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw— + He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe. + Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love + Kept those that rose all dastard fear above, + As on his tent they saw his shadow pass— + Backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas! + His fortune's star! it could not, could not be + That he had not his work to do—a destiny? + To hurl him headlong from his high estate, + Would be high treason in his bondman, Fate. + But all the while he felt himself alone, + Stunned with disasters few have ever known. + Sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul, + What more was written on the Future's scroll? + Was this an expiation? It must be, yea! + He turned to God for one enlightening ray. + "Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?" he sighed, + But the first murmur on his parched lips died. + "Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?" + A pause: his name was called; of flame a jet + Sprang in the darkness;—a Voice answered; "No! + Not yet." + + Outside still fell the smothering snow. + Was it a voice indeed? or but a dream? + It was the vulture's, but how like the <i>sea-bird's scream.</i> + + TORU DUTT. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0116" id="link2H_4_0116"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OCEAN'S SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Nous nous promenions à Rozel-Tower.")</i> + + {Bk. VI. iv., October, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We walked amongst the ruins famed in story + Of Rozel-Tower, + And saw the boundless waters stretch in glory + And heave in power. + + O ocean vast! we heard thy song with wonder, + Whilst waves marked time. + "Appeal, O Truth!" thou sang'st with tone of thunder, + "And shine sublime! + + "The world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles,— + To despots sold, + Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles, + The Right uphold. + + "Be born; arise; o'er earth and wild waves bounding + Peoples and suns! + Let darkness vanish;—tocsins be resounding, + And flash, ye guns! + + "And you,—who love no pomps of fog, or glamour, + Who fear no shocks, + Brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamor, + Exiles—the rocks!" + + TORU DUTT +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0117" id="link2H_4_0117"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TRUMPETS OF THE MIND. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Sonnez, clairons de la pensée!")</i> + + {Bk. VII. i., March 19, 1853.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sound, sound for ever, Clarions of Thought! + + When Joshua 'gainst the high-walled city fought, + He marched around it with his banner high, + His troops in serried order following nigh, + But not a sword was drawn, no shaft outsprang, + Only the trumpets the shrill onset rang. + At the first blast, smiled scornfully the king, + And at the second sneered, half wondering: + "Hop'st thou with noise my stronghold to break down?" + At the third round, the ark of old renown + Swept forward, still the trumpets sounding loud, + And then the troops with ensigns waving proud. + Stepped out upon the old walls children dark + With horns to mock the notes and hoot the ark. + At the fourth turn, braving the Israelites, + Women appeared upon the crenelated heights— + Those battlements embrowned with age and rust— + And hurled upon the Hebrews stones and dust, + And spun and sang when weary of the game. + At the fifth circuit came the blind and lame, + And with wild uproar clamorous and high + Railed at the clarion ringing to the sky. + At the sixth time, upon a tower's tall crest, + So high that there the eagle built his nest, + So hard that on it lightning lit in vain, + Appeared in merriment the king again: + "These Hebrew Jews musicians are, meseems!" + He scoffed, loud laughing, "but they live on dreams." + The princes laughed submissive to the king, + Laughed all the courtiers in their glittering ring, + And thence the laughter spread through all the town. + + At the seventh blast—the city walls fell down. + + TORU DUTT. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0118" id="link2H_4_0118"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AFTER THE COUP D'ÊTAT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Devant les trahisons.")</i> + + {Bk. VII, xvi., Jersey, Dec. 2, 1852.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Before foul treachery and heads hung down, + I'll fold my arms, indignant but serene. + Oh! faith in fallen things—be thou my crown, + My force, my joy, my prop on which I lean: + + Yes, whilst <i>he's</i> there, or struggle some or fall, + O France, dear France, for whom I weep in vain. + Tomb of my sires, nest of my loves—my all, + I ne'er shall see thee with these eyes again. + + I shall not see thy sad, sad sounding shore, + France, save my duty, I shall all forget; + Amongst the true and tried, I'll tug my oar, + And rest proscribed to brand the fawning set. + + O bitter exile, hard, without a term, + Thee I accept, nor seek nor care to know + Who have down-truckled 'mid the men deemed firm, + And who have fled that should have fought the foe. + + If true a thousand stand, with them I stand; + A hundred? 'tis enough: we'll Sylla brave; + Ten? put my name down foremost in the band; + One?—well, alone—until I find my grave. + + TORU DUTT. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0119" id="link2H_4_0119"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PATRIA.{1} + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Là-haut, qui sourit.")</i> + + {Bk. VII. vii., September, 1853.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who smiles there? Is it + A stray spirit, + Or woman fair? + Sombre yet soft the brow! + Bow, nations, bow; + O soul in air, + Speak—what art thou? + + In grief the fair face seems— + What means those sudden gleams? + Our antique pride from dreams + Starts up, and beams + Its conquering glance,— + To make our sad hearts dance, + And wake in woods hushed long + The wild bird's song. + Angel of Day! + Our Hope, Love, Stay, + Thy countenance + Lights land and sea + Eternally, + Thy name is France + Or Verity. + + Fair angel in thy glass + When vile things move or pass, + Clouds in the skies amass; + Terrible, alas! + Thy stern commands are then: + "Form your battalions, men, + The flag display!" + And all obey. + Angel of might + Sent kings to smite, + The words in dark skies glance, + "Mené, Mené," hiss + Bolts that never miss! + Thy name is France, + Or Nemesis. + + As halcyons in May, + O nations, in his ray + Float and bask for aye, + Nor know decay! + One arm upraised to heaven + Seals the past forgiven; + One holds a sword + To quell hell's horde, + Angel of God! + Thy wings stretch broad + As heaven's expanse! + To shield and free + Humanity! + Thy name is France, + Or Liberty! + + {Footnote 1: Written to music by Beethoven.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0120" id="link2H_4_0120"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE UNIVERSAL REPUBLIC. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Temps futurs.")</i> + + {Part "Lux," Jersey, Dec. 16-20, 1853.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O vision of the coming time! + When man has 'scaped the trackless slime + And reached the desert spring; + When sands are crossed, the sward invites + The worn to rest 'mid rare delights + And gratefully to sing. + + E'en now the eye that's levelled high, + Though dimly, can the hope espy + So solid soon, one day; + For every chain must then be broke, + And hatred none will dare evoke, + And June shall scatter May. + + E'en now amid our misery + The germ of Union many see, + And through the hedge of thorn, + Like to a bee that dawn awakes, + On, Progress strides o'er shattered stakes, + With solemn, scathing scorn. + + Behold the blackness shrink, and flee! + Behold the world rise up so free + Of coroneted things! + Whilst o'er the distant youthful States, + Like Amazonian bosom-plates, + Spread Freedom's shielding wings. + + Ye, liberated lands, we hail! + Your sails are whole despite the gale! + Your masts are firm, and will not fail— + The triumph follows pain! + Hear forges roar! the hammer clanks— + It beats the time to nations' thanks— + At last, a <i>peaceful</i> strain! + + 'Tis rust, not gore, that gnaws the guns, + And shattered shells are but the runs + Where warring insects cope; + And all the headsman's racks and blades + And pincers, tools of tyrants' aids, + Are buried with the rope. + + Upon the sky-line glows i' the dark + The Sun that now is but a spark; + But soon will be unfurled— + The glorious banner of us all, + The flag that rises ne'er to fall, + Republic of the World! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0121" id="link2H_4_0121"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LES CONTEMPLATIONS.—1830-56. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0122" id="link2H_4_0122"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE VALE TO YOU, TO ME THE HEIGHTS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A FABLE. + + {Bk. III. vi., October, 1846.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A lion camped beside a spring, where came the Bird + Of Jove to drink: + When, haply, sought two kings, without their courtier herd, + The moistened brink, + Beneath the palm—<i>they</i> always tempt pugnacious hands— + Both travel-sore; + But quickly, on the recognition, out flew brands + Straight to each core; + As dying breaths commingle, o'er them rose the call + Of Eagle shrill: + "Yon crownèd couple, who supposed the world too small, + Now one grave fill! + Chiefs blinded by your rage! each bleachèd sapless bone + Becomes a pipe + Through which siroccos whistle, trodden 'mong the stone + By quail and snipe. + Folly's liege-men, what boots such murd'rous raid, + And mortal feud? + I, Eagle, dwell as friend with Leo—none afraid— + In solitude: + At the same pool we bathe and quaff in placid mood. + Kings, he and I; + For I to him leave prairie, desert sands and wood, + And he to me the sky." + + H.L.W. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0123" id="link2H_4_0123"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHILDHOOD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("L'enfant chantait.")</i> + + {Bk. I. xxiii., Paris, January, 1835.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The small child sang; the mother, outstretched on the low bed, + With anguish moaned,—fair Form pain should possess not long; + For, ever nigher, Death hovered around her head: + I hearkened there this moan, and heard even there that song. + + The child was but five years, and, close to the lattice, aye + Made a sweet noise with games and with his laughter bright; + And the wan mother, aside this being the livelong day + Carolling joyously, coughed hoarsely all the night. + + The mother went to sleep 'mong them that sleep alway; + And the blithe little lad began anew to sing... + Sorrow is like a fruit: God doth not therewith weigh + Earthward the branch strong yet but for the blossoming. + + NELSON R. TYERMAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0124" id="link2H_4_0124"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SATIRE ON THE EARTH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Une terre au flanc maigre.")</i> + + {Bk. III. xi., October, 1840.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A clod with rugged, meagre, rust-stained, weather-worried face, + Where care-filled creatures tug and delve to keep a worthless race; + And glean, begrudgedly, by all their unremitting toil, + Sour, scanty bread and fevered water from the ungrateful soil; + Made harder by their gloom than flints that gash their harried hands, + And harder in the things they call their hearts than wolfish bands, + Perpetuating faults, inventing crimes for paltry ends, + And yet, perversest beings! hating Death, their best of friends! + Pride in the powerful no more, no less than in the poor; + Hatred in both their bosoms; love in one, or, wondrous! two! + Fog in the valleys; on the mountains snowfields, ever new, + That only melt to send down waters for the liquid hell, + In which, their strongest sons and fairest daughters vilely fell! + No marvel, Justice, Modesty dwell far apart and high, + Where they can feebly hear, and, rarer, answer victims' cry. + At both extremes, unflinching frost, the centre scorching hot; + Land storms that strip the orchards nude, leave beaten grain to rot; + Oceans that rise with sudden force to wash the bloody land, + Where War, amid sob-drowning cheers, claps weapons in each hand. + And this to those who, luckily, abide afar— + This is, ha! ha! <i>a star</i>! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0125" id="link2H_4_0125"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOW BUTTERFLIES ARE BORN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Comme le matin rit sur les roses.")</i> + + {Bk. I. xii.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers + The tearful roses—lo, the little lovers— + That kiss the buds and all the flutterings + In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings + That go and come, and fly, and peep, and hide + With muffled music, murmured far and wide! + Ah, Springtime, when we think of all the lays + That dreamy lovers send to dreamy Mays, + Of the proud hearts within a billet bound, + Of all the soft silk paper that men wound, + The messages of love that mortals write, + Filled with intoxication of delight, + Written in April, and before the Maytime + Shredded and flown, playthings for the winds' playtime. + We dream that all white butterflies above, + Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, + And leave their lady mistress to despair, + To flirt with flowers, as tender and more fair, + Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies + Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies. + + A. LANG. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0126" id="link2H_4_0126"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HAVE YOU NOTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF? + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Si vous n'avez rien à me dire.")</i> + + {Bk. II. iv., May, 18—.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Speak, if you love me, gentle maiden! + Or haunt no more my lone retreat. + If not for me thy heart be laden, + Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet? + + Ah! tell me why so mute, fair maiden, + Whene'er as thus so oft we meet? + If not for me thy heart be, Aideen, + Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet? + + Why, when my hand unconscious pressing, + Still keep untold the maiden dream? + In fancy thou art thus caressing + The while we wander by the stream. + + If thou art pained when I am near thee, + Why in my path so often stray? + For in my heart I love yet fear thee, + And fain would fly, yet fondly stay. + + C.H. KENNY. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0127" id="link2H_4_0127"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INSCRIPTION FOR A CRUCIFIX.{1} + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Vous qui pleurez, venez à ce Dieu.")</i> + + {Bk. III. iv., March, 1842.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye weepers, the Mourner o'er mourners behold! + Ye wounded, come hither—the Healer enfold! + Ye gloomy ones, brighten 'neath smiles quelling care— + Or pass—for <i>this</i> Comfort is found ev'rywhere. + + {Footnote 1: Music by Gounod.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0128" id="link2H_4_0128"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEATH, IN LIFE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Ceux-ci partent.")</i> + + {Bk. III. v., February, 1843.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We pass—these sleep + Beneath the shade where deep-leaved boughs + Bend o'er the furrows the Great Reaper ploughs, + And gentle summer winds in many sweep + Whirl in eddying waves + The dead leaves o'er the graves. + + And the living sigh: + Forgotten ones, so soon your memories die. + Ye never more may list the wild bird's song, + Or mingle in the crowded city-throng. + Ye must ever dwell in gloom, + 'Mid the silence of the tomb. + + And the dead reply: + God giveth us His life. Ye die, + Your barren lives are tilled with tears, + For glory, ye are clad with fears. + Oh, living ones! oh, earthly shades! + We live; your beauty clouds and fades. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0129" id="link2H_4_0129"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DYING CHILD TO ITS MOTHER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Oh! vous aurez trop dit.")</i> + + {Bk. III. xiv., April, 1843.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah, you said too often to your angel + There are other angels in the sky— + There, where nothing changes, nothing suffers, + Sweet it were to enter in on high. + + To that dome on marvellous pilasters, + To that tent roofed o'er with colored bars, + That blue garden full of stars like lilies, + And of lilies beautiful as stars. + + And you said it was a place most joyous, + All our poor imaginings above, + With the wingèd cherubim for playmates, + And the good God evermore to love. + + Sweet it were to dwell there in all seasons, + Like a taper burning day and night, + Near to the child Jesus and the Virgin, + In that home so beautiful and bright. + + But you should have told him, hapless mother, + Told your child so frail and gentle too, + That you were all his in life's beginning, + But that also he belonged to you. + + For the mother watches o'er the infant, + He must rise up in her latter days, + She will need the man that was her baby + To stand by her when her strength decays. + + Ah, you did not tell enough your darling + That God made us in this lower life, + Woman for the man, and man for woman, + In our pains, our pleasures and our strife. + + So that one sad day, O loss, O sorrow! + The sweet creature left you all alone; + 'Twas your own hand hung the cage door open, + Mother, and your pretty bird is flown. + + BP. ALEXANDER. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0130" id="link2H_4_0130"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Il vivait, il jouait.")</i> + + {Bk. III. xv., May, 1843.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He lived and ever played, the tender smiling thing. + What need, O Earth, to have plucked this flower from blossoming? + Hadst thou not then the birds with rainbow-colors bright, + The stars and the great woods, the wan wave, the blue sky? + What need to have rapt this child from her thou hadst placed him by— + Beneath those other flowers to have hid this flower from sight? + + Because of this one child thou hast no more of might, + O star-girt Earth, his death yields thee not higher delight! + But, ah! the mother's heart with woe for ever wild, + This heart whose sovran bliss brought forth so bitter birth— + This world as vast as thou, even <i>thou</i>, O sorrowless Earth, + Is desolate and void because of this one child! + + NELSON K. TYERMAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0131" id="link2H_4_0131"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ST. JOHN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Un jour, le morne esprit.")</i> + + {Bk. VI. vii., Jersey, September, 1855.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One day, the sombre soul, the Prophet most sublime + At Patmos who aye dreamed, + And tremblingly perused, without the vast of Time, + Words that with hell-fire gleamed, + + Said to his eagle: "Bird, spread wings for loftiest flight— + Needs must I see His Face!" + The eagle soared. At length, far beyond day and night, + Lo! the all-sacred Place! + + And John beheld the Way whereof no angel knows + The name, nor there hath trod; + And, lo! the Place fulfilled with shadow that aye glows + Because of very God. + + NELSON R. TYERMAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0132" id="link2H_4_0132"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POET'S SIMPLE FAITH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You say, "Where goest thou?" I cannot tell, + And still go on. If but the way be straight, + It cannot go amiss! before me lies + Dawn and the Day; the Night behind me; that + Suffices me; I break the bounds; I <i>see</i>, + And nothing more; <i>believe</i>, and nothing less. + My future is not one of my concerns. + + PROF. E. DOWDEN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I AM CONTENT. + + <i>("J'habite l'ombre.")</i> + + {1855.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + True; I dwell lone, + Upon sea-beaten cape, + Mere raft of stone; + Whence all escape + Save one who shrinks not from the gloom, + And will not take the coward's leap i' the tomb. + + My bedroom rocks + With breezes; quakes in storms, + When dangling locks + Of seaweed mock the forms + Of straggling clouds that trail o'erhead + Like tresses from disrupted coffin-lead. + + Upon the sky + Crape palls are often nailed + With stars. Mine eye + Has scared the gull that sailed + To blacker depths with shrillest scream, + Still fainter, till like voices in a dream. + + My days become + More plaintive, wan, and pale, + While o'er the foam + I see, borne by the gale, + Infinity! in kindness sent— + To find me ever saying: "I'm content!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0133" id="link2H_4_0133"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LA LÉGENDE DES SIÈCLES. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0134" id="link2H_4_0134"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CAIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Lorsque avec ses enfants Cain se fût enfui.")</i> + + {Bk. II} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Then, with his children, clothed in skins of brutes, + Dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm, + Cain fled before Jehovah. As night fell + The dark man reached a mount in a great plain, + And his tired wife and his sons, out of breath, + Said: "Let us lie down on the earth and sleep." + Cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot. + Raising his head, in that funereal heaven + He saw an eye, a great eye, in the night + Open, and staring at him in the gloom. + "I am too near," he said, and tremblingly woke up + His sleeping sons again, and his tired wife, + And fled through space and darkness. Thirty days + He went, and thirty nights, nor looked behind; + Pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound; + No rest, no sleep, till he attained the strand + Where the sea washes that which since was Asshur. + "Here pause," he said, "for this place is secure; + Here may we rest, for this is the world's end." + And he sat down; when, lo! in the sad sky, + The selfsame Eye on the horizon's verge, + And the wretch shook as in an ague fit. + "Hide me!" he cried; and all his watchful sons, + Their finger on their lip, stared at their sire. + Cain said to Jabal (father of them that dwell + In tents): "Spread here the curtain of thy tent," + And they spread wide the floating canvas roof, + And made it fast and fixed it down with lead. + "You see naught now," said Zillah then, fair child + The daughter of his eldest, sweet as day. + But Cain replied, "That Eye—I see it still." + And Jubal cried (the father of all those + That handle harp and organ): "I will build + A sanctuary;" and he made a wall of bronze, + And set his sire behind it. But Cain moaned, + "That Eye is glaring at me ever." Henoch cried: + "Then must we make a circle vast of towers, + So terrible that nothing dare draw near; + Build we a city with a citadel; + Build we a city high and close it fast." + Then Tubal Cain (instructor of all them + That work in brass and iron) built a tower— + Enormous, superhuman. While he wrought, + His fiery brothers from the plain around + Hunted the sons of Enoch and of Seth; + They plucked the eyes out of whoever passed, + And hurled at even arrows to the stars. + They set strong granite for the canvas wall, + And every block was clamped with iron chains. + It seemed a city made for hell. Its towers, + With their huge masses made night in the land. + The walls were thick as mountains. On the door + They graved: "Let not God enter here." This done, + And having finished to cement and build + In a stone tower, they set him in the midst. + To him, still dark and haggard, "Oh, my sire, + Is the Eye gone?" quoth Zillah tremblingly. + But Cain replied: "Nay, it is even there." + Then added: "I will live beneath the earth, + As a lone man within his sepulchre. + I will see nothing; will be seen of none." + They digged a trench, and Cain said: "'Tis enow," + As he went down alone into the vault; + But when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair, + And they had closed the dungeon o'er his head, + The Eye was in the tomb and fixed on Cain. + + <i>Dublin University Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0135" id="link2H_4_0135"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOAZ ASLEEP. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Booz s'était couché.")</i> + + {Bk. II. vi.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At work within his barn since very early, + Fairly tired out with toiling all the day, + Upon the small bed where he always lay + Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley. + + Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well, + Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood + That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud + And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell. + + His beard was silver, as in April all + A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook. + When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look, + Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall." + + He walked his way of life straight on and plain, + With justice clothed, like linen white and clean, + And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween, + Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain. + + Good master, faithful friend, in his estate + Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth + He won regard of woman, for in sooth + The young man may be fair—the old man's great. + + Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright, + The old man entereth, the day eterne; + And in the young man's eye a flame may burn, + But in the old man's eye one seeth light. + + As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep + Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided, + Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided + A fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep. + + And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad, + Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain. + His race ran up it far, like a long chain; + Below it sung a king, above it died a God. + + Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart, + "The number of my years is past fourscore: + How may this be? I have not any more, + Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part. + + "In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine; + And she, half living, I half dead within, + Our beings still commingle and are twin, + It cannot be that I should found a line! + + "Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound + From night, as from a victory. But such + A trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch + Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round. + + "I bow myself to death, as lone to meet + The water bow their fronts athirst." He said. + The cedar feeleth not the rose's head, + Nor he the woman's presence at his feet! + + For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth + Lay at his feet, expectant of his waking. + He knowing not what sweet guile she was making; + She knowing not what God would have in sooth. + + Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring— + Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast + The angels sped, for momently there passed + A something blue which seemed to be a wing. + + Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur— + The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows. + Far west among those flowers of the shadows. + The thin clear crescent lustrous over her, + + Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars + Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comer + Unto the harvest of the eternal summer, + Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars. + + BP. ALEXANDER. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0136" id="link2H_4_0136"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONG OF THE GERMAN LANZKNECHT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Sonnex, clarions!")</i> + + {Bk. VI. vii.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Flourish the trumpet! and rattle the drum! + The <i>Reiters</i> are mounted! the Reiters will come! + + When our bullets cease singing + And long swords cease ringing + On backplates of fearsomest foes in full flight, + We'll dig up their dollars + To string for girls' collars— + They'll jingle around them before it is night! + When flourish the trumpets, etc. + + We're the Emperor's winners + Of right royal dinners, + Where cities are served up and flanked by estates, + While we wallow in claret, + Knowing not how to spare it, + Though beer is less likely to muddle our pates— + While flourish the trumpets, etc. + + Gods of battle! red-handed! + Wise it was to have banded + Such arms as are these for embracing of gain! + Hearken to each war-vulture + Crying, "Down with all culture + Of land or religion!" <i>Hoch</i>! to our refrain + Of flourish the trumpets, etc. + + Give us "bones of the devil" + To exchange in our revel + The ingot, the gem, and yellow doubloon; + Coronets are but playthings— + We reck not who say things + When the Reiters have ridden to death! none too soon!— + To flourish of trumpet and rattle of drum, + The Reiters will finish as firm as they come! + + H.L.W. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0137" id="link2H_4_0137"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + KING CANUTE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Un jour, Kanut mourut.")</i> + + {Bk. X. i.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + King Canute died.{1} Encoffined he was laid. + Of Aarhuus came the Bishop prayers to say, + And sang a hymn upon his tomb, and held + That Canute was a saint—Canute the Great, + That from his memory breathed celestial perfume, + And that they saw him, they the priests, in glory, + Seated at God's right hand, a prophet crowned. + + I. + + Evening came, + And hushed the organ in the holy place, + And the priests, issuing from the temple doors, + Left the dead king in peace. Then he arose, + Opened his gloomy eyes, and grasped his sword, + And went forth loftily. The massy walls + Yielded before the phantom, like a mist. + + There is a sea where Aarhuus, Altona, + And Elsinore's vast domes and shadowy towers + Glass in deep waters. Over this he went + Dark, and still Darkness listened for his foot + Inaudible, itself being but a dream. + Straight to Mount Savo went he, gnawed by time, + And thus, "O mountain buffeted of storms, + Give me of thy huge mantle of deep snow + To frame a winding-sheet." The mountain knew him, + Nor dared refuse, and with his sword Canute + Cut from his flank white snow, enough to make + The garment he desired, and then he cried, + "Old mountain! death is dumb, but tell me thou + The way to God." More deep each dread ravine + And hideous hollow yawned, and sadly thus + Answered that hoar associate of the clouds: + "Spectre, I know not, I am always here." + Canute departed, and with head erect, + All white and ghastly in his robe of snow, + Went forth into great silence and great night + By Iceland and Norway. After him + Gloom swallowed up the universe. He stood + A sovran kingdomless, a lonely ghost + Confronted with Immensity. He saw + The awful Infinite, at whose portal pale + Lightning sinks dying; Darkness, skeleton + Whose joints are nights, and utter Formlessness + Moving confusedly in the horrible dark + Inscrutable and blind. No star was there, + Yet something like a haggard gleam; no sound + But the dull tide of Darkness, and her dumb + And fearful shudder. "'Tis the tomb," he said, + "God is beyond!" Three steps he took, then cried: + 'Twas deathly as the grave, and not a voice + Responded, nor came any breath to sway + The snowy mantle, with unsullied white + Emboldening the spectral wanderer. + Sudden he marked how, like a gloomy star, + A spot grew broad upon his livid robe; + Slowly it widened, raying darkness forth; + And Canute proved it with his spectral hands + It was a drop of blood. + + <i>R. GARNETT.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0138" id="link2H_4_0138"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But he saw nothing; space was black—no sound. + "Forward," said Canute, raising his proud head. + There fell a second stain beside the first, + Then it grew larger, and the Cimbrian chief + Stared at the thick vague darkness, and saw naught. + Still as a bloodhound follows on his track, + Sad he went on. 'There fell a third red stain + On the white winding-sheet. He had never fled; + Howbeit Canute forward went no more, + But turned on that side where the sword arm hangs. + A drop of blood, as if athwart a dream, + Fell on the shroud, and reddened his right hand. + Then, as in reading one turns back a page, + A second time he changed his course, and turned + To the dim left. There fell a drop of blood. + Canute drew back, trembling to be alone, + And wished he had not left his burial couch. + But, when a blood-drop fell again, he stopped, + Stooped his pale head, and tried to make a prayer. + Then fell a drop, and the prayer died away + In savage terror. Darkly he moved on, + A hideous spectre hesitating, white, + And ever as he went, a drop of blood + Implacably from the darkness broke away + And stained that awful whiteness. He beheld + Shaking, as doth a poplar in the wind, + Those stains grow darker and more numerous: + Another, and another, and another. + They seem to light up that funereal gloom, + And mingling in the folds of that white sheet, + Made it a cloud of blood. He went, and went, + And still from that unfathomable vault + The red blood dropped upon him drop by drop, + Always, for ever—without noise, as though + From the black feet of some night-gibbeted corpse. + Alas! Who wept those formidable tears? + The Infinite!—Toward Heaven, of the good + Attainable, through the wild sea of night, + That hath not ebb nor flow, Canute went on, + And ever walking, came to a closed door, + That from beneath showed a mysterious light. + Then he looked down upon his winding-sheet, + For that was the great place, the sacred place, + That was a portion of the light of God, + And from behind that door Hosannas rang. + The winding-sheet was red, and Canute stopped. + This is why Canute from the light of day + Draws ever back, and hath not dared appear + Before the Judge whose face is as the sun. + This is why still remaineth the dark king + Out in the night, and never having power + To bring his robe back to its first pure state, + But feeling at each step a blood-drop fall, + Wanders eternally 'neath the vast black heaven. + + <i>Dublin University Magazine</i> + + {Footnote 1: King Canute slew his old father, Sweno, to obtain the crown.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0139" id="link2H_4_0139"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BOY-KING'S PRAYER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Le cheval galopait toujours.")</i> + + {Bk. XV. ii. 10.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The good steed flew o'er river and o'er plain, + Till far away,—no need of spur or rein. + The child, half rapture, half solicitude, + Looks back anon, in fear to be pursued; + Shakes lest some raging brother of his sire + Leap from those rocks that o'er the path aspire. + + On the rough granite bridge, at evening's fall, + The white horse paused by Compostella's wall, + ('Twas good St. James that reared those arches tall,) + Through the dim mist stood out each belfry dome, + And the boy hailed the paradise of home. + + Close to the bridge, set on high stage, they meet + A Christ of stone, the Virgin at his feet. + A taper lighted that dear pardoning face, + More tender in the shade that wrapped the place, + And the child stayed his horse, and in the shine + Of the wax taper knelt down at the shrine. + + "O, my good God! O, Mother Maiden sweet!" + He said, "I was the worm beneath men's feet; + My father's brethren held me in their thrall, + But Thou didst send the Paladin of Gaul, + O Lord! and show'dst what different spirits move + The good men and the evil; those who love + And those who love not. I had been as they, + But Thou, O God! hast saved both life and soul to-day. + I saw Thee in that noble knight; I saw + Pure light, true faith, and honor's sacred law, + My Father,—and I learnt that monarchs must + Compassionate the weak, and unto all be just. + O Lady Mother! O dear Jesus! thus + Bowed at the cross where Thou didst bleed for us, + I swear to hold the truth that now I learn, + Leal to the loyal, to the traitor stern, + And ever just and nobly mild to be, + Meet scholar of that Prince of Chivalry; + And here Thy shrine bear witness, Lord, for me." + + The horse of Roland, hearing the boy tell + His vow, looked round and spoke: "O King, 'tis well!" + Then on the charger mounted the child-king, + And rode into the town, while all the bells 'gan ring. + + <i>Dublin University Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0140" id="link2H_4_0140"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EVIRADNUS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE KNIGHT ERRANT. + + <i>("Qu'est-ce que Sigismond et Ladislas ont dit.")</i> + + {Bk. XV. iii. 1.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + THE ADVENTURER SETS OUT. + + What was it Sigismond and Ladisläus said? + + I know not if the rock, or tree o'erhead, + Had heard their speech;—but when the two spoke low, + Among the trees, a shudder seemed to go + Through all their branches, just as if that way + A beast had passed to trouble and dismay. + More dark the shadow of the rock was seen, + And then a morsel of the shade, between + The sombre trees, took shape as it would seem + Like spectre walking in the sunset's gleam. + + It is not monster rising from its lair, + Nor phantom of the foliage and the air, + It is not morsel of the granite's shade + That walks in deepest hollows of the glade. + 'Tis not a vampire nor a spectre pale + But living man in rugged coat of mail. + It is Alsatia's noble Chevalier, + Eviradnus the brave, that now is here. + + The men who spoke he recognized the while + He rested in the thicket; words of guile + Most horrible were theirs as they passed on, + And to the ears of Eviradnus one— + One word had come which roused him. Well he knew + The land which lately he had journeyed through. + + He down the valley went into the inn + Where he had left his horse and page, Gasclin. + The horse had wanted drink, and lost a shoe; + And now, "Be quick!" he said, "with what you do, + For business calls me, I must not delay." + He strides the saddle and he rides away. + + II. + + EVIRADNUS. + + Eviradnus was growing old apace, + The weight of years had left its hoary trace, + But still of knights the most renowned was he, + Model of bravery and purity. + His blood he spared not; ready day or night + To punish crime, his dauntless sword shone bright + In his unblemished hand; holy and white + And loyal all his noble life had been, + A Christian Samson coming on the scene. + With fist alone the gate he battered down + Of Sickingen in flames, and saved the town. + 'Twas he, indignant at the honor paid + To crime, who with his heel an onslaught made + Upon Duke Lupus' shameful monument, + Tore down, the statue he to fragments rent; + Then column of the Strasburg monster bore + To bridge of Wasselonne, and threw it o'er + Into the waters deep. The people round + Blazon the noble deeds that so abound + From Altorf unto Chaux-de-Fonds, and say, + When he rests musing in a dreamy way, + "Behold, 'tis Charlemagne!" Tawny to see + And hairy, and seven feet high was he, + Like John of Bourbon. Roaming hill or wood + He looked a wolf was striving to do good. + Bound up in duty, he of naught complained, + The cry for help his aid at once obtained. + Only he mourned the baseness of mankind, + And—that the beds too short he still doth find. + When people suffer under cruel kings, + With pity moved, he to them succor brings. + 'Twas he defended Alix from her foes + As sword of Urraca—he ever shows + His strength is for the feeble and oppressed; + Father of orphans he, and all distressed! + Kings of the Rhine in strongholds were by him + Boldly attacked, and tyrant barons grim. + He freed the towns—confronting in his lair + Hugo the Eagle; boldly did he dare + To break the collar of Saverne, the ring + Of Colmar, and the iron torture thing + Of Schlestadt, and the chain that Haguenau bore. + Such Eviradnus was a wrong before, + Good but most terrible. In the dread scale + Which princes weighted with their horrid tale + Of craft and violence, and blood and ill, + And fire and shocking deeds, his sword was still + God's counterpoise displayed. Ever alert + More evil from the wretched to avert, + Those hapless ones who 'neath Heaven's vault at night + Raise suppliant hands. His lance loved not the plight + Of mouldering in the rack, of no avail, + His battle-axe slipped from supporting nail + Quite easily; 'twas ill for action base + To come so near that he the thing could trace. + The steel-clad champion death drops all around + As glaciers water. Hero ever found + Eviradnus is kinsman of the race + Of Amadys of Gaul, and knights of Thrace, + He smiles at age. For he who never asked + For quarter from mankind—shall he be tasked + To beg of Time for mercy? Rather he + Would girdle up his loins, like Baldwin be. + Aged he is, but of a lineage rare; + The least intrepid of the birds that dare + Is not the eagle barbed. What matters age, + The years but fire him with a holy rage. + Though late from Palestine, he is not spent,— + With age he wrestles, firm in his intent. + + III. + + IN THE FOREST. + + If in the woodland traveller there had been + That eve, who lost himself, strange sight he'd seen. + Quite in the forest's heart a lighted space + Arose to view; in that deserted place + A lone, abandoned hall with light aglow + The long neglect of centuries did show. + The castle-towers of Corbus in decay + Were girt by weeds and growths that had their way. + Couch-grass and ivy, and wild eglantine + In subtle scaling warfare all combine. + Subject to such attacks three hundred years, + The donjon yields, and ruin now appears, + E'en as by leprosy the wild boars die, + In moat the crumbled battlements now lie; + Around the snake-like bramble twists its rings; + Freebooter sparrows come on daring wings + To perch upon the swivel-gun, nor heed + Its murmuring growl when pecking in their greed + The mulberries ripe. With insolence the thorn + Thrives on the desolation so forlorn. + But winter brings revenges; then the Keep + Wakes all vindictive from its seeming sleep, + Hurls down the heavy rain, night after night, + Thanking the season's all-resistless might; + And, when the gutters choke, its gargoyles four + From granite mouths in anger spit and pour + Upon the hated ivy hour by hour. + + As to the sword rust is, so lichens are + To towering citadel with which they war. + Alas! for Corbus—dreary, desolate, + And yet its woes the winters mitigate. + It rears itself among convulsive throes + That shake its ruins when the tempest blows. + Winter, the savage warrior, pleases well, + With its storm clouds, the mighty citadel,— + Restoring it to life. The lightning flash + Strikes like a thief and flies; the winds that crash + Sound like a clarion, for the Tempest bluff + Is Battle's sister. And when wild and rough, + The north wind blows, the tower exultant cries + "Behold me!" When hail-hurling gales arise + Of blustering Equinox, to fan the strife, + It stands erect, with martial ardor rife, + A joyous soldier! When like yelping hound + Pursued by wolves, November comes to bound + In joy from rock to rock, like answering cheer + To howling January now so near— + "Come on!" the Donjon cries to blasts o'erhead— + It has seen Attila, and knows not dread. + Oh, dismal nights of contest in the rain + And mist, that furious would the battle gain, + 'The tower braves all, though angry skies pour fast + The flowing torrents, river-like and vast. + From their eight pinnacles the gorgons bay, + And scattered monsters, in their stony way, + Are growling heard; the rampart lions gnaw + The misty air and slush with granite maw, + The sleet upon the griffins spits, and all + The Saurian monsters, answering to the squall, + Flap wings; while through the broken ceiling fall + Torrents of rain upon the forms beneath, + Dragons and snak'd Medusas gnashing teeth + In the dismantled rooms. Like armored knight + The granite Castle fights with all its might, + Resisting through the winter. All in vain, + The heaven's bluster, January's rain, + And those dread elemental powers we call + The Infinite—the whirlwinds that appall— + Thunder and waterspouts; and winds that shake + As 'twere a tree its ripened fruit to take. + The winds grow wearied, warring with the tower, + The noisy North is out of breath, nor power + Has any blast old Corbus to defeat, + It still has strength their onslaughts worst to meet. + Thus, spite of briers and thistles, the old tower + Remains triumphant through the darkest hour; + Superb as pontiff, in the forest shown, + Its rows of battlements make triple crown; + At eve, its silhouette is finely traced + Immense and black—showing the Keep is placed + On rocky throne, sublime and high; east, west, + And north and south, at corners four, there rest + Four mounts; Aptar, where flourishes the pine, + And Toxis, where the elms grow green and fine; + Crobius and Bleyda, giants in their might, + Against the stormy winds to stand and fight, + And these above its diadem uphold + Night's living canopy of clouds unrolled. + + The herdsman fears, and thinks its shadow creeps + To follow him; and superstition keeps + Such hold that Corbus as a terror reigns; + Folks say the Fort a target still remains + For the Black Archer—and that it contains + The cave where the Great Sleeper still sleeps sound. + The country people all the castle round + Are frightened easily, for legends grow + And mix with phantoms of the mind; we know + The hearth is cradle of such fantasies, + And in the smoke the cotter sees arise + From low-thatched but he traces cause of dread. + Thus rendering thanks that he is lowly bred, + Because from such none look for valorous deeds. + The peasant flies the Tower, although it leads + A noble knight to seek adventure there, + And, from his point of honor, dangers dare. + + Thus very rarely passer-by is seen; + But—it might be with twenty years between, + Or haply less—at unfixed interval + There would a semblance be of festival. + A Seneschal and usher would appear, + And troops of servants many baskets bear. + Then were, in mystery, preparations made, + And they departed—for till night none stayed. + But 'twixt the branches gazers could descry + The blackened hall lit up most brilliantly. + None dared approach—and this the reason why. + + IV. + + THE CUSTOM OF LUSACE. + + When died a noble Marquis of Lusace + 'Twas custom for the heir who filled his place + Before assuming princely pomp and power + To sup one night in Corbus' olden tower. + From this weird meal he passed to the degree + Of Prince and Margrave; nor could ever he + Be thought brave knight, or she—if woman claim + The rank—be reckoned of unblemished fame + Till they had breathed the air of ages gone, + The funeral odors, in the nest alone + Of its dead masters. Ancient was the race; + To trace the upward stem of proud Lusace + Gives one a vertigo; descended they + From ancestor of Attila, men say; + Their race to him—through Pagans—they hark back; + Becoming Christians, race they thought to track + Through Lechus, Plato, Otho to combine + With Ursus, Stephen, in a lordly line. + Of all those masters of the country round + That were on Northern Europe's boundary found— + At first were waves and then the dykes were reared— + Corbus in double majesty appeared, + Castle on hill and town upon the plain; + And one who mounted on the tower could gain + A view beyond the pines and rocks, of spires + That pierce the shade the distant scene acquires; + A walled town is it, but 'tis not ally + Of the old citadel's proud majesty; + Unto itself belonging this remained. + Often a castle was thus self-sustained + And equalled towns; witness in Lombardy + Crama, and Plato too in Tuscany, + And in Apulia Barletta;—each one + Was powerful as a town, and dreaded none. + Corbus ranked thus; its precincts seemed to hold + The reflex of its mighty kings of old; + Their great events had witness in these walls, + Their marriages were here and funerals, + And mostly here it was that they were born; + And here crowned Barons ruled with pride and scorn; + Cradle of Scythian majesty this place. + Now each new master of this ancient race + A duty owed to ancestors which he + Was bound to carry on. The law's decree + It was that he should pass alone the night + Which made him king, as in their solemn sight. + Just at the forest's edge a clerk was met + With wine in sacred cup and purpose set, + A wine mysterious, which the heir must drink + To cause deep slumber till next day's soft brink. + Then to the castle tower he wends his way, + And finds a supper laid with rich display. + He sups and sleeps: then to his slumbering eyes + The shades of kings from Bela all arise. + None dare the tower to enter on this night, + But when the morning dawns, crowds are in sight + The dreamer to deliver,—whom half dazed, + And with the visions of the night amazed, + They to the old church take, where rests the dust + Of Borivorus; then the bishop must, + With fervent blessings on his eyes and mouth, + Put in his hands the stony hatchets both, + With which—even like death impartially— + Struck Attila, with one arm dexterously + The south, and with the other arm the north. + + This day the town the threatening flag set forth + Of Marquis Swantibore, the monster he + Who in the wood tied up his wife, to be + Devoured by wolves, together with the bull + Of which with jealousy his heart was full. + + Even when woman took the place of heir + The tower of Corbus claimed the supper there; + 'Twas law—the woman trembled, but must dare. + + V. + + THE MARCHIONESS MAHAUD. + + Niece of the Marquis—John the Striker named— + Mahaud to-day the marquisate has claimed. + A noble dame—the crown is hers by right: + As woman she has graces that delight. + A queen devoid of beauty is not queen, + She needs the royalty of beauty's mien; + God in His harmony has equal ends + For cedar that resists, and reed that bends, + And good it is a woman sometimes rules, + Holds in her hand the power, and manners schools, + And laws and mind;—succeeding master proud, + With gentle voice and smile she leads the crowd, + The sombre human troop. But sweet Mahaud + On evil days had fallen; gentle, good, + Alas! she held the sceptre like a flower; + Timid yet gay, imprudent for the hour, + And careless too. With Europe all in throes, + Though twenty years she now already knows, + She has refused to marry, although oft + Entreated. It is time an arm less soft + Than hers—a manly arm—supported her; + Like to the rainbow she, one might aver, + Shining on high between the cloud and rain, + Or like the ewe that gambols on the plain + Between the bear and tiger; innocent, + She has two neighbors of most foul intent: + For foes the Beauty has, in life's pure spring, + The German Emp'ror and the Polish King. + + VI. + + THE TWO NEIGHBORS. + + The difference this betwixt the evil pair, + Faithless to God—for laws without a care— + One was the claw, the other one the will + Controlling. Yet to mass they both went still, + And on the rosary told their beads each day. + But none the less the world believed that they + Unto the powers of hell their souls had sold. + Even in whispers men each other told + The details of the pact which they had signed + With that dark power, the foe of human kind; + In whispers, for the crowd had mortal dread + Of them so high, and woes that they had spread. + One might be vengeance and the other hate, + Yet lived they side by side, in powerful state + And close alliance. All the people near + From red horizon dwelt in abject fear, + Mastered by them; their figures darkly grand + Had ruddy reflex from the wasted land, + And fires, and towns they sacked. Besides the one, + Like David, poet was, the other shone + As fine musician—rumor spread their fame, + Declaring them divine, until each name + In Italy's fine sonnets met with praise. + The ancient hierarch in those old days + Had custom strange, a now forgotten thing, + It was a European plan that King + Of France was marquis, and th' imperial head + Of Germany was duke; there was no need + To class the other kings, but barons they, + Obedient vassals unto Rome, their stay. + The King of Poland was but simple knight, + Yet now, for once, had strange unwonted right, + And, as exception to the common state, + This one Sarmatian King was held as great + As German Emperor; and each knew how + His evil part to play, nor mercy show. + The German had one aim, it was to take + All land he could, and it his own to make. + The Pole already having Baltic shore, + Seized Celtic ports, still needing more and more. + On all the Northern Sea his crafts roused fear: + Iceland beheld his demon navy near. + Antwerp the German burnt; and Prussias twain + Bowed to the yoke. The Polish King was fain + To help the Russian Spotocus—his aid + Was like the help that in their common trade + A sturdy butcher gives a weaker one. + The King it is who seizes, and this done, + The Emp'ror pillages, usurping right + In war Teutonic, settled but by might. + The King in Jutland cynic footing gains, + The weak coerced, the while with cunning pains + The strong are duped. But 'tis a law they make + That their accord themselves should never break. + From Arctic seas to cities Transalpine, + Their hideous talons, curved for sure rapine, + Scrape o'er and o'er the mournful continent, + Their plans succeed, and each is well content. + Thus under Satan's all paternal care + They brothers are, this royal bandit pair. + Oh, noxious conquerors! with transient rule + Chimera heads—ambition can but fool. + Their misty minds but harbor rottenness + Loathsome and fetid, and all barrenness— + Their deeds to ashes turn, and, hydra-bred, + The mystic skeleton is theirs to dread. + The daring German and the cunning Pole + Noted to-day a woman had control + Of lands, and watched Mahaud like evil spies; + And from the Emp'ror's cruel mouth—with dyes + Of wrath empurpled—came these words of late: + "The empire wearies of the wallet weight + Hung at its back—this High and Low Lusace, + Whose hateful load grows heavier apace, + That now a woman holds its ruler's place." + Threatening, and blood suggesting, every word; + The watchful Pole was silent—but he heard. + + Two monstrous dangers; but the heedless one + Babbles and smiles, and bids all care begone— + Likes lively speech—while all the poor she makes + To love her, and the taxes off she takes. + A life of dance and pleasure she has known— + A woman always; in her jewelled crown + It is the pearl she loves—not cutting gems, + For these can wound, and mark men's diadems. + She pays the hire of Homer's copyists, + And in the Courts of Love presiding, lists. + + Quite recently unto her Court have come + Two men—unknown their names or native home, + Their rank or race; but one plays well the lute, + The other is a troubadour; both suit + The taste of Mahaud, when on summer eve, + 'Neath opened windows, they obtain her leave + To sing upon the terrace, and relate + The charming tales that do with music mate. + In August the Moravians have their fête, + But it is radiant June in which Lusace + Must consecrate her noble Margrave race. + Thus in the weird and old ancestral tower + For Mahaud now has come the fateful hour, + The lonely supper which her state decrees. + What matters this to flowers, and birds, and trees, + And clouds and fountains? That the people may + Still bear their yoke—have kings to rule alway? + The water flows, the wind in passing by + In murmuring tones takes up the questioning cry. + + VII. + + THE BANQUET HALL. + + The old stupendous hall has but one door, + And in the dusk it seems that more and more + The walls recede in space unlimited. + At the far end there is a table spread + That in the dreary void with splendor shines; + For ceiling we behold but rafter lines. + The table is arranged for one sole guest, + A solitary chair doth near it rest, + Throne-like, 'neath canopy that droopeth down + From the black beams; upon the walls are shown + The painted histories of the olden might, + The King of the Wends Thassilo's stern fight + On land with Nimrod, and on ocean wide + With Neptune. Rivers too personified + Appear—the Rhine as by the Meuse betrayed, + And fading groups of Odin in the shade, + And the wolf Fenrir and the Asgard snake. + One might the place for dragons' stable take. + The only lights that in the shed appear + Spring from the table's giant chandelier + With seven iron branches—brought from hell + By Attila Archangel, people tell, + When he had conquered Mammon—and they say + That seven souls were the first flames that day. + This banquet hall looks an abyss outlined + With shadowy vagueness, though indeed we find + In the far depth upon the table spread + A sudden, strong, and glaring light is shed, + Striking upon the goldsmith's burnished works, + And on the pheasants killed by traitor hawks. + Loaded the table is with viands cold, + Ewers and flagons, all enough of old + To make a love feast. All the napery + Was Friesland's famous make; and fair to see + The dishes, silver-gilt and bordered round + With flowers; for fruit, here strawberries were found + And citrons, apples too, and nectarines. + The wooden bowls were carved in cunning lines + By peasants of the Murg, whose skilful hands + With patient toil reclaim the barren lands + And make their gardens flourish on a rock, + Or mountain where we see the hunters flock. + Gold fountain-cup, with handles Florentine, + Shows Acteons horned, though armed and booted fine, + Who fight with sword in hand against the hounds. + Roses and gladioles make up bright mounds + Of flowers, with juniper and aniseed; + While sage, all newly cut for this great need, + Covers the Persian carpet that is spread + Beneath the table, and so helps to shed + Around a perfume of the balmy spring. + Beyond is desolation withering. + One hears within the hollow dreary space + Across the grove, made fresh by summer's grace, + The wind that ever is with mystic might + A spirit ripple of the Infinite. + The glass restored to frames to creak is made + By blustering wind that comes from neighboring glade. + Strange in this dream-like place, so drear and lone, + The guest expected should be living one! + The seven lights from seven arms make glow + Almost with life the staring eyes that show + On the dim frescoes—and along the walls + Is here and there a stool, or the light falls + O'er some long chest, with likeness to a tomb. + Yet was displayed amid the mournful gloom + Some copper vessels, and some crockery ware. + The door—as if it must, yet scarcely dare— + Had opened widely to the night's fresh air. + + No voice is heard, for man has fled the place; + But Terror crouches in the corners' space, + And waits the coming guest. This banquet hall + Of Titans is so high, that he who shall + With wandering eye look up from beam to beam + Of the confused wild roof will haply seem + To wonder that the stars he sees not there. + Giants the spiders are, that weave with care + Their hideous webs, which float the joists amid, + Joists whose dark ends in griffins' jaws are hid. + The light is lurid, and the air like death, + And dark and foul. Even Night holds its breath + Awhile. One might suppose the door had fear + To move its double leaves—their noise to hear. + + VIII. + + WHAT MORE WAS TO BE SEEN. + + But the great hall of generations dead + Has something more sepulchral and more dread + Than lurid glare from seven-branched chandelier + Or table lone with stately daïs near— + Two rows of arches o'er a colonnade + With knights on horseback all in mail arrayed, + Each one disposed with pillar at his back + And to another vis-à-vis. Nor lack + The fittings all complete; in each right hand + A lance is seen; the armored horses stand + With chamfrons laced, and harness buckled sure; + The cuissarts' studs are by their clamps secure; + The dirks stand out upon the saddle-bow; + Even unto the horses' feet do flow + Caparisons,—the leather all well clasped, + The gorget and the spurs with bronze tongues hasped, + The shining long sword from the saddle hung, + The battle-axe across the back was flung. + Under the arm a trusty dagger rests, + Each spiked knee-piece its murderous power attests. + Feet press the stirrups—hands on bridle shown + Proclaim all ready, with the visors down, + And yet they stir not, nor is audible + A sound to make the sight less terrible. + + Each monstrous horse a frontal horn doth bear, + If e'er the Prince of Darkness herdsman were, + These cattle black were his by surest right, + Like things but seen in horrid dreams of night. + The steeds are swathed in trappings manifold, + The armed knights are grave, and stern, and cold, + Terrific too; the clench'd fists seem to hold + Some frightful missive, which the phantom hands + Would show, if opened out at hell's commands. + The dusk exaggerates their giant size, + The shade is awed—the pillars coldly rise. + Oh, Night! why are these awful warriors here? + + Horses and horsemen that make gazers fear + Are only empty armor. But erect + And haughty mien they all affect + And threatening air—though shades of iron still. + Are they strange larvae—these their statues ill? + No. They are dreams of horror clothed in brass, + Which from profoundest depths of evil pass + With futile aim to dare the Infinite! + Souls tremble at the silent spectre sight, + As if in this mysterious cavalcade + They saw the weird and mystic halt was made + Of them who at the coming dawn of day + Would fade, and from their vision pass away. + A stranger looking in, these masks to see, + Might deem from Death some mandate there might be + At times to burst the tombs—the dead to wear + A human shape, and mustering ranks appear + Of phantoms, each confronting other shade. + + Grave-clothes are not more grim and sombre made + Than are these helms; the deaf and sealed-up graves + Are not more icy than these arms; the staves + Of hideous biers have not their joints more strong + Than are the joinings of these legs; the long + Scaled gauntlet fingers look like worms that shine, + And battle robes to shroud-like folds incline. + The heads are skull-like, and the stony feet + Seem for the charnel house but only meet. + The pikes have death's-heads carved, and seem to be + Too heavy; but the shapes defiantly + Sit proudly in the saddle—and perforce + The rider looks united to the horse! + The network of their mail doth clearly cross. + The Marquis' mortar beams near Ducal wreath, + And on the helm and gleaming shield beneath + Alternate triple pearls with leaves displayed + Of parsley, and the royal robes are made + So large that with the knightly harness they + Seem to o'ermaster palfreys every way. + To Rome the oldest armor might be traced, + And men and horses' armor interlaced + Blent horribly; the man and steed we feel + Made but one hydra with its scales of steel. + Yet is there history here. Each coat of mail + Is representant of some stirring tale. + Each delta-shaped escutcheon shines to show + A vision of the chief by it we know. + Here are the blood-stained Dukes' and Marquis' line, + Barbaric lords, who amid war's rapine + Bore gilded saints upon their banners still + Painted on fishes' skin with cunning skill. + Here Geth, who to the Slaves cried "Onward go," + And Mundiaque and Ottocar—Plato + And Ladisläus Kunne; and Welf who bore + These words upon his shield his foes before; + "Nothing there is I fear." Otho blear-eyed, + Zultan and Nazamustus, and beside + The later Spignus, e'en to Spartibor + Of triple vision, and yet more and more + As if a pause at every age were made, + And Antaeus' fearful dynasty portrayed. + + What do they here so rigid and erect? + What wait they for—and what do they expect? + Blindness fills up the helm 'neath iron brows; + Like sapless tree no soul the hero knows. + Darkness is now where eyes with flame were fraught, + And thrice-bored visor serves for mask of naught. + Of empty void is spectral giant made, + And each of these all-powerful knights displayed + Is only rind of pride and murderous sin; + Themselves are held the icy grave within. + Rust eats the casques enamoured once so much + Of death and daring—which knew kiss-like touch + Of banner—mistress so august and dear— + But not an arm can stir its hinges here; + Behold how mute are they whose threats were heard + Like savage roar—whose gnashing teeth and word + Deadened the clarion's tones; the helmets dread + Have not a sound, and all the armor spread, + The hauberks, that strong breathing seemed to sway, + Are stranded now in helplessness alway + To see the shadows, still prolonged, that seem + To take at night the image of a dream. + + These two great files reach from the door afar + To where the table and the daïs are, + Leaving between their fronts a narrow lane. + On the left side the Marquises maintain + Their place, but the right side the Dukes retain, + And till the roof, embattled by Spignus, + But worn by time that even that subdues, + Shall fall upon their heads, these forms will stand + The grades confronting—one on either hand. + While in advance beyond, with haughty head— + As if commander of this squadron dread— + All waiting signal of the Judgment Day, + In stone was seen in olden sculptors' way + Charlemagne the King, who on the earth had found + Only twelve knights to grace his Table Round. + + The crests were an assembly of strange things, + Of horrors such as nightmare only brings. + Asps, and spread eagles without beak or feet, + Sirens and mermaids here and dragons meet, + And antlered stags and fabled unicorn, + And fearful things of monstrous fancy born. + Upon the rigid form of morion's sheen + Winged lions and the Cerberus are seen, + And serpents winged and finned; things made to fright + The timid foe, alone by sense of sight. + Some leaning forward and the others back, + They looked a growing forest that did lack + No form of terror; but these things of dread + That once on barons' helms the battle led + Beneath the giant banners, now are still, + + As if they gaped and found the time but ill, + Wearied the ages passed so slowly by, + And that the gory dead no more did lie + Beneath their feet—pined for the battle-cry, + The trumpet's clash, the carnage and the strife, + Yawning to taste again their dreadful life. + Like tears upon the palfreys' muzzles were + The hard reflections of the metal there; + From out these spectres, ages past exhumed, + And as their shadows on the roof-beams loomed, + Cast by the trembling light, each figure wan + Seemed growing, and a monstrous shape to don, + So that the double range of horrors made + The darkened zenith clouds of blackest shade, + That shaped themselves to profiles terrible. + + All motionless the coursers horrible, + That formed a legion lured by Death to war, + These men and horses masked, how dread they are! + Absorbed in shadows of the eternal shore, + Among the living all their tasks are o'er. + Silent, they seem all mystery to brave, + These sphinxes whom no beacon light can save + Upon the threshold of the gulf so near, + As if they faced the great enigma here; + Ready with hoofs, between the pillars blue + To strike out sparks, and combats to renew, + Choosing for battle-field the shades below, + Which they provoked by deeds we cannot know, + In that dark realm thought dares not to expound + False masks from heaven lowered to depths profound. + + IX. + + A NOISE ON THE FLOOR. + + This is the scene on which now enters in + Eviradnus; and follows page Gasclin. + + The outer walls were almost all decayed, + The door, for ancient Marquises once made— + Raised many steps above the courtyard near— + Commanded view of the horizon clear. + The forest looked a great gulf all around, + And on the rock of Corbus there were found + Secret and blood-stained precipices tall. + Duke Plato built the tower and banquet hall + Over great pits,—so was it Rumor said. + The flooring sounds 'neath Eviradnus' tread + Above abysses many. + "Page," said he, + "Come here, your eyes than mine can better see, + For sight is woman-like and shuns the old; + Ah! he can see enough, when years are told, + Who backwards looks. But, boy, turn towards the glade + And tell me what you see." + The boy obeyed, + And leaned across the threshold, while the bright, + Full moon shed o'er the glade its white, pure light. + + "I see a horse and woman on it now," + Said Gasclin, "and companions also show." + "Who are they?" asked the seeker of sublime + Adventures. "Sir, I now can hear like chime + The sound of voices, and men's voices too, + Laughter and talk; two men there are in view, + Across the road the shadows clear I mark + Of horses three." + "Enough. Now, Gasclin, hark!" + Exclaimed the knight, "you must at once return + By other path than that which you discern, + So that you be not seen. At break of day + Bring back our horses fresh, and every way + Caparisoned; now leave me, boy, I say." + The page looked at his master like a son, + And said, "Oh! if I might stay on, + For they are two." + + "Go—I suffice alone!" + + X. + + EVIRADNUS MOTIONLESS. + + And lone the hero is within the hall, + And nears the table where the glasses all + Show in profusion; all the vessels there, + Goblets and glasses gilt, or painted fair, + Are ranged for different wines with practised care. + He thirsts; the flagons tempt; but there must stay + One drop in emptied glass, and 'twould betray + The fact that some one living had been here. + Straight to the horses goes he, pauses near + That which is next the table shining bright, + Seizes the rider—plucks the phantom knight + To pieces—all in vain its panoply + And pallid shining to his practised eye; + Then he conveys the severed iron remains + To corner of the hall where darkness reigns; + Against the wall he lays the armor low + In dust and gloom like hero vanquished now— + But keeping pond'rous lance and shield so old, + Mounts to the empty saddle, and behold! + A statue Eviradnus has become, + Like to the others in their frigid home. + With visor down scarce breathing seemed maintained + Throughout the hall a death-like silence reigned. + + XI. + + A LITTLE MUSIC. + + Listen! like hum froth unseen nests we hear + A mirthful buzz of voices coming near, + Of footsteps—laughter—from the trembling trees. + And now the thick-set forest all receives + A flood of moonlight—and there gently floats + The sound of a guitar of Inspruck; notes + Which blend with chimes—vibrating to the hand— + Of tiny bell—where sounds a grain of sand. + A man's voice mixes with the melody, + And vaguely melts to song in harmony. + + "If you like we'll dream a dream. + Let us mount on palfreys two; + Birds are singing,—let it seem + You lure me—and I take you. + + "Let us start—'tis eve, you see, + I'm thy master and thy prey. + My bright steed shall pleasure be; + Yours, it shall be love, I say. + + "Journeying leisurely we go, + We will make our steeds touch heads, + Kiss for fodder,—and we so + Satisfy our horses' needs. + + "Come! the two delusive things + Stamp impatiently it seems, + Yours has heavenward soaring wings, + Mine is of the land of dreams. + + "What's our baggage? only vows, + Happiness, and all our care, + And the flower that sweetly shows + Nestling lightly in your hair. + + "Come, the oaks all dark appear, + Twilight now will soon depart, + Railing sparrows laugh to hear + Chains thou puttest round my heart. + + "Not my fault 'twill surely be + If the hills should vocal prove, + And the trees when us they see, + All should murmur—let us love! + + "Oh, be gentle!—I am dazed, + See the dew is on the grass, + Wakened butterflies amazed + Follow thee as on we pass. + + "Envious night-birds open wide + Their round eyes to gaze awhile, + Nymphs that lean their urns beside + From their grottoes softly smile, + + "And exclaim, by fancy stirred, + 'Hero and Leander they; + We in listening for a word + Let our water fall away.' + + "Let us journey Austrian way, + With the daybreak on our brow; + I be great, and you I say + Rich, because we love shall know. + + "Let us over countries rove, + On our charming steeds content, + In the azure light of love, + And its sweet bewilderment. + + "For the charges at our inn, + You with maiden smiles shall pay; + I the landlord's heart will win + In a scholar's pleasant way. + + "You, great lady—and I, Count— + Come, my heart has opened quite, + We this tale will still recount, + To the stars that shine at night." + + The melody went on some moments more + Among the trees the calm moon glistened o'er, + Then trembled and was hushed; the voice's thrill + Stopped like alighting birds, and all was still. + + XII. + + GREAT JOSS AND LITTLE ZENO. + + Quite suddenly there showed across the door, + Three heads which all a festive aspect wore. + Two men were there; and, dressed in cloth of gold, + A woman. Of the men one might have told + Some thirty years, the other younger seemed, + Was tall and fair, and from his shoulder gleamed + A gay guitar with ivy leaves enlaced. + The other man was dark, but pallid-faced + And small. At the first glance they seemed to be + But made of perfume and frivolity. + Handsome they were, but through their comely mien + A grinning demon might be clearly seen. + April has flowers where lurk the slugs between. + + "Big Joss and little Zeno, pray come here; + Look now—how dreadful! can I help but fear!" + Madame Mahaud was speaker. Moonlight there + Caressingly enhanced her beauty rare, + Making it shine and tremble, as if she + So soft and gentle were of things that be + Of air created, and are brought and ta'en + By heavenly flashes. Now, she spoke again + "Certes, 'tis heavy purchase of a throne, + To pass the night here utterly alone. + Had you not slyly come to guard me now, + I should have died of fright outright I know." + The moonbeams through the open door did fall, + And shine upon the figure next the wall. + + Said Zeno, "If I played the Marquis part, + I'd send this rubbish to the auction mart; + Out of the heap should come the finest wine, + Pleasure and gala-fêtes, were it all mine." + And then with scornful hand he touched the thing, + And made the metal like a soul's cry ring. + He laughed—the gauntlet trembled at his stroke. + "Let rest my ancestors"—'twas Mahaud spoke; + Then murmuring added she, "For you are much + Too small their noble armor here to touch." + + And Zeno paled, but Joss with laugh exclaimed, + "Why, all these good black men so grandly named + Are only nests for mice. By Jove, although + They lifelike look and terrible, we know + What is within; just listen, and you'll hear + The vermins' gnawing teeth, yet 'twould appear + These figures once were proudly named Otho, + And Ottocar, and Bela, and Plato. + Alas! the end's not pleasant—puts one out; + To have been kings and dukes—made mighty rout— + Colossal heroes filling tombs with slain, + And, Madame, this to only now remain; + A peaceful nibbling rat to calmly pierce + A prince's noble armor proud and fierce." + + "Sing, if you will—but do not speak so loud; + Besides, such things as these," said fair Mahaud, + "In your condition are not understood." + "Well said," made answer Zeno, "'tis a place + Of wonders—I see serpents, and can trace + Vampires, and monsters swarming, that arise + In mist, through chinks, to meet the gazer's eyes." + + Then Mahaud shuddered, and she said: "The wine + The Abbé made me drink as task of mine, + Will soon enwrap me in the soundest sleep— + Swear not to leave me—that you here will keep." + "I swear," cried Joss, and Zeno, "I also; + But now at once to supper let us go." + + XIII. + + THEY SUP. + + With laugh and song they to the table went. + Said Mahaud gayly: "It is my intent + To make Joss chamberlain. Zeno shall be + A constable supreme of high degree." + All three were joyous, and were fair to see. + Joss ate—and Zeno drank; on stools the pair, + With Mahaud musing in the regal chair. + The sound of separate leaf we do not note— + And so their babble seemed to idly float, + And leave no thought behind. Now and again + Joss his guitar made trill with plaintive strain + Or Tyrolean air; and lively tales they told + Mingled with mirth all free, and frank, and bold. + Said Mahaud: "Do you know how fortunate + You are?" "Yes, we are young at any rate— + Lovers half crazy—this is truth at least." + "And more, for you know Latin like a priest, + And Joss sings well." + "Ah, yes, our master true, + Yields us these gifts beyond the measure due." + "Your master!—who is he?" Mahaud exclaimed. + "Satan, we say—but Sin you'd think him named," + Said Zeno, veiling words in raillery. + "Do not laugh thus," she said with dignity; + "Peace, Zeno. Joss, you speak, my chamberlain." + "Madame, Viridis, Countess of Milan, + Was deemed superb; Diana on the mount + Dazzled the shepherd boy; ever we count + The Isabel of Saxony so fair, + And Cleopatra's beauty all so rare— + Aspasia's, too, that must with theirs compare— + That praise of them no fitting language hath. + Divine was Rhodope—and Venus' wrath + Was such at Erylesis' perfect throat, + She dragged her to the forge where Vulcan smote + Her beauty on his anvil. Well, as much + As star transcends a sequin, and just such + As temple is to rubbish-heap, I say, + You do eclipse their beauty every way. + Those airy sprites that from the azure smile, + Peris and elfs the while they men beguile, + Have brows less youthful pure than yours; besides + Dishevelled they whose shaded beauty hides + In clouds." + "Flatt'rer," said Mahaud, "you but sing + Too well." + Then Joss more homage sought to bring; + "If I were angel under heav'n," said he, + "Or girl or demon, I would seek to be + By you instructed in all art and grace, + And as in school but take a scholar's place. + Highness, you are a fairy bright, whose hand + For sceptre vile gave up your proper wand." + Fair Mahaud mused—then said, "Be silent now; + You seem to watch me; little 'tis I know, + Only that from Bohemia Joss doth come, + And that in Poland Zeno hath his home. + But you amuse me; I am rich, you poor— + What boon shall I confer and make secure? + What gift? ask of me, poets, what you will + And I will grant it—promise to fulfil." + "A kiss," said Joss. + "A kiss!" and anger fraught + Amazed at minstrel having such a thought— + While flush of indignation warmed her cheek. + "You do forget to whom it is you speak," + She cried. + "Had I not known your high degree, + Should I have asked this royal boon," said he, + "Obtained or given, a kiss must ever be. + No gift like king's—no kiss like that of queen!" + Queen! And on Mahaud's face a smile was seen. + + XIV. + + AFTER SUPPER. + + But now the potion proved its subtle power, + And Mahaud's heavy eyelids 'gan to lower. + Zeno, with finger on his lip, looked on— + Her head next drooped, and consciousness was gone. + Smiling she slept, serene and very fair, + He took her hand, which fell all unaware. + + "She sleeps," said Zeno, "now let chance or fate + Decide for us which has the marquisate, + And which the girl." + + Upon their faces now + A hungry tiger's look began to show. + "My brother, let us speak like men of sense," + Said Joss; "while Mahaud dreams in innocence, + We grasp all here—and hold the foolish thing— + Our Friend below to us success will bring. + He keeps his word; 'tis thanks to him I say, + No awkward chance has marred our plans to-day. + All has succeeded—now no human power + Can take from us this woman and her dower. + Let us conclude. To wrangle and to fight + For just a yes or no, or to prove right + The Arian doctrines, all the time the Pope + Laughs in his sleeve at you—or with the hope + Some blue-eyed damsel with a tender skin + And milkwhite dainty hands by force to win— + This might be well in days when men bore loss + And fought for Latin or Byzantine Cross; + When Jack and Rudolf did like fools contend, + And for a simple wench their valor spend— + When Pepin held a synod at Leptine, + And times than now were much less wise and fine. + We do no longer heap up quarrels thus, + But better know how projects to discuss. + Have you the needful dice?" + + "Yes, here they wait + For us." + + "Who wins shall have the Marquisate; + Loser, the girl." + + "Agreed." + + "A noise I hear?" + "Only the wind that sounds like some one near— + Are you afraid?" said Zeno. + + "Naught I fear + Save fasting—and that solid earth should gape. + Let's throw and fate decide—ere time escape." + Then rolled the dice. + + "'Tis four." + + 'Twas Joss to throw. + "Six!—and I neatly win, you see; and lo! + At bottom of this box I've found Lusace, + And henceforth my orchestra will have place; + To it they'll dance. Taxes I'll raise, and they + In dread of rope and forfeit well will pay; + Brass trumpet-calls shall be my flutes that lead, + Where gibbets rise the imposts grow and spread." + + Said Zeno, "I've the girl and so is best," + "She's beautiful," said Joss. + + "Yes, 'tis confess'd." + "What shall you do with her?" asked Joss. + + "I know. + Make her a corpse," said Zeno; "marked you how + The jade insulted me just now! Too small + She called me—such the words her lips let fall. + I say, that moment ere the dice I threw + Had yawning Hell cried out, 'My son, for you + The chance is open still: take in a heap + The fair Lusace's seven towns, and reap + The corn, and wine, and oil of counties ten, + With all their people diligent, and then + Bohemia with its silver mines, and now + The lofty land whence mighty rivers flow + And not a brook returns; add to these counts + The Tyrol with its lovely azure mounts + And France with her historic fleurs-de-lis; + Come now, decide, what 'tis your choice must be?' + I should have answered, 'Vengeance! give to me + Rather than France, Bohemia, or the fair + Blue Tyrol, I my choice, O Hell! declare + For government of darkness and of death, + Of grave and worms.' Brother, this woman hath + As marchioness with absurdity set forth + To rule o'er frontier bulwarks of the north. + In any case to us a danger she, + And having stupidly insulted me + 'Tis needful that she die. To blurt all out— + I know that you desire her; without doubt + The flame that rages in my heart warms yours; + To carry out these subtle plans of ours, + We have become as gypsies near this doll, + You as her page—I dotard to control— + Pretended gallants changed to lovers now. + So, brother, this being fact for us to know + Sooner or later, 'gainst our best intent + About her we should quarrel. Evident + Is it our compact would be broken through. + There is one only thing for us to do, + And that is, kill her." + + "Logic very clear," + Said musing Joss, "but what of blood shed here?" + Then Zeno stooped and lifted from the ground + An edge of carpet—groped until he found + A ring, which, pulled, an opening did disclose, + With deep abyss beneath; from it there rose + The odor rank of crime. Joss walked to see + While Zeno pointed to it silently. + But eyes met eyes, and Joss, well pleased, was fain + By nod of head to make approval plain. + + XV. + + THE OUBLIETTES. + + If sulphurous light had shone from this vile well + One might have said it was a mouth of hell, + So large the trap that by some sudden blow + A man might backward fall and sink below. + Who looked could see a harrow's threatening teeth, + But lost in night was everything beneath. + Partitions blood-stained have a reddened smear, + And Terror unrelieved is master here. + One feels the place has secret histories + Replete with dreadful murderous mysteries, + And that this sepulchre, forgot to-day, + Is home of trailing ghosts that grope their way + Along the walls where spectre reptiles crawl. + "Our fathers fashioned for us after all + Some useful things," said Joss; then Zeno spoke: + "I know what Corbus hides beneath its cloak, + I and the osprey know the castle old, + And what in bygone times the justice bold." + + "And are you sure that Mahaud will not wake?" + "Her eyes are closed as now my fist I make; + She is in mystic and unearthly sleep; + The potion still its power o'er her must keep." + "But she will surely wake at break of day?" + "In darkness." + + "What will all the courtiers say + When in the place of her they find two men?" + "To them we will declare ourselves—and then + They at our feet will fall." + + "Where leads this hole?" + "To where the crow makes feast and torrents roll + To desolation. Let us end it now." + + These young and handsome men had seemed to grow + Deformed and hideous—so doth foul black heart + Disfigure man, till beauty all depart. + So to the hell within the human face + Transparent is. They nearer move apace; + And Mahaud soundly sleeps as in a bed. + "To work." + + Joss seizes her and holds her head + Supporting her beneath her arms, in his; + And then he dared to plant a monstrous kiss + Upon her rosy lips,—while Zeno bent + Before the massive chair, and with intent + Her robe disordered as he raised her feet; + Her dainty ankles thus their gaze to meet. + And while the mystic sleep was all profound, + The pit gaped wide like grave in burial ground. + + XVI. + + WHAT THEY ATTEMPT BECOMES DIFFICULT. + + Bearing the sleeping Mahaud they moved now + Silent and bent with heavy step and slow. + Zeno faced darkness—Joss turned towards the light— + So that the hall to Joss was quite in sight. + Sudden he stopped—and Zeno, "What now!" called, + But Joss replied not, though he seemed appalled, + And made a sign to Zeno, who with speed + Looked back. Then seemed they changed to stone indeed. + For both perceived that in the vaulted hall + One of the grand old knights ranged by the wall + Descended from his horse. Like phantom he + Moved with a horrible tranquillity. + Masked by his helm towards them he came; his tread + Made the floor tremble—and one might have said + A spirit of th' abyss was here; between + Them and the pit he came—a barrier seen; + Then said, with sword in hand and visor down, + In measured tones that had sepulchral grown + As tolling bell, "Stop, Sigismond, and you, + King Ladisläus;" at those words, though few, + They dropped the Marchioness, and in such a way + That at their feet like rigid corpse she lay. + + The deep voice speaking from the visor's grate + Proceeded—while the two in abject state + Cowered low. Joss paled, by gloom and dread o'ercast, + And Zeno trembled like a yielding mast. + "You two who listen now must recollect + The compact all your fellow-men suspect. + 'Tis this: 'I, Satan, god of darkened sphere, + The king of gloom and winds that bring things drear, + Alliance make with my two brothers dear, + The Emperor Sigismond and Polish King + Named Ladisläus. I to surely bring + Aid and protection to them both alway, + And never to absent myself or say + I'm weary. And yet more—I, being lord + Of sea and land, to Sigismond award + The earth; to Ladisläus all the sea. + With this condition that they yield to me + When I the forfeit claim—the King his head, + But shall the Emperor give his soul instead.'" + + Said Joss, "Is't he?—Spectre with flashing eyes, + And art thou Satan come to us surprise?" + "Much less am I and yet much more. + Oh, kings of crimes and plots! your day is o'er, + But I your lives will only take to-day; + Beneath the talons black your souls let stay + To wrestle still." + + The pair looked stupefied + And crushed. Exchanging looks 'twas Zeno cried, + Speaking to Joss, "Now who—who can it be?" + Joss stammered, "Yes, no refuge can I see; + The doom is on us. But oh, spectre! say + Who are you?" + + "I'm the judge." + + "Then mercy, pray." + The voice replied: "God guides His chosen hand + To be th' Avenger in your path to stand. + Your hour has sounded, nothing now indeed + Can change for you the destiny decreed, + Irrevocable quite. Yes, I looked on. + Ah! little did you think that any one + To this unwholesome gloom could knowledge bring + That Joss a kaiser was, and Zeno king. + You spoke just now—but why?—too late to plead. + The forfeit's due and hope should all be dead. + Incurables! For you I am the grave. + Oh, miserable men! that naught can save. + Yes, Sigismond a kaiser is, and you + A king, O Ladisläus!—it is true. + You thought of God but as a wheel to roll + Your chariot on; you who have king's control + O'er Poland and its many towns so strong. + You, Milan's Duke, to whom at once belong + The gold and iron crowns. You, Emperor made + By Rome, a son of Hercules 'tis said; + And you of Spartibor. And your two crowns + Are shining lights; and yet your shadow frowns + From every mountain land to trembling sea. + You are at giddy heights twin powers to be + A glory and a force for all that's great— + But 'neath the purple canopy of state, + Th' expanding and triumphant arch you prize, + 'Neath royal power that sacred veils disguise, + Beneath your crowns of pearls and jewelled stars, + Beneath your exploits terrible and wars, + You, Sigismond, have but a monster been, + And, Ladisläus, you are scoundrel seen. + Oh, degradation of the sceptre's might + And swords—when Justice has a hand like night, + Foul and polluted; and before this thing, + This hydra, do the Temple's hinges swing— + The throne becomes the haunt of all things base + Oh, age of infamy and foul disgrace! + Oh, starry heavens looking on the shame, + No brow but reddens with resentful flame— + And yet the silent people do not stir! + Oh, million arms! what things do you deter— + Poor sheep, whom vermin-majesties devour, + Have you not nails with strong desiring power + To rend these royalties, that you so cower? + But two are taken,—such as will amaze + E'en hell itself, when it on them shall gaze. + Ah, Sigismond and Ladisläus, you + Were once triumphant, splendid to the view, + Stifling with your prosperity—but now + The hour of retribution lays you low. + Ah, do the vulture and the crocodile + Shed tears! At such a sight I fain must smile. + It seems to me 'tis very good sometimes + That princes, conquerors stained with bandits' crimes, + Sparkling with splendor, wearing crowns of gold, + Should know the deadly sweat endured of old, + That of Jehoshaphat; should sob and fear, + And after crime th' unclean be brought to bear. + 'Tis well—God rules—and thus it is that I + These masters of the world can make to lie + In ashes at my feet. And this was he + Who reigned—and this a Caesar known to be! + In truth, my old heart aches with very shame + To see such cravens with such noble name. + But let us finish—what has just passed here + Demands thick shrouding, and the time is near. + Th' accursed dice that rolled at Calvary + You rolled a woman's murder to decree + It was a dark disastrous game to play; + But not for me a moral to essay. + This moment to the misty grave is due, + And far too vile and little human you + To see your evil ways. Your fingers lack + The human power your shocking deeds to track. + What use in darkness mirror to uphold? + What use your doings to be now retold? + Drink of the darkness—greedy of the ill + To which from habit you're attracted still, + Not recognizing in the draught you take + The stench that your atrocities must make. + I only tell you that this burdened age + Tires of your Highnesses, that soil its page, + And of your villanies—and this is why + You now must swell the stream that passes by + Of refuse filth. Oh, horrid scene to show + Of these young men and that young girl just now! + Oh! can you really be of human kind + Breathing pure air of heaven? Do we find + That you are men? Oh, no! for when you laid + Foul lips upon the mouth of sleeping maid, + You seemed but ghouls that had come furtively + From out the tombs; only a horrid lie + Your human shape; of some strange frightful beast + You have the soul. To darkness I at least + Remit you now. Oh, murderer Sigismond + And Ladisläus pirate, both beyond + Release—two demons that have broken ban! + Therefore 'tis time their empire over man + And converse with the living, should be o'er; + Tyrants, behold your tomb your eyes before; + Vampires and dogs, your sepulchre is here. + Enter." + + He pointed to the gulf so near. + All terrified upon their knees they fell. + "Oh! take us not in your dread realm to dwell," + Said Sigismond. "But, phantom! do us tell + What thou wouldst have from us—we will obey. + Oh, mercy!—'tis for mercy now we pray." + "Behold us at your feet, oh, spectre dread!" + And no old crone in feebler voice could plead + Than Ladisläus did. + + But not a word + Said now the figure motionless, with sword + In hand. This sovereign soul seemed to commune + With self beneath his metal sheath; yet soon + And suddenly, with tranquil voice said he, + "Princes, your craven spirit wearies me. + No phantom—only man am I. Arise! + I like not to be dreaded otherwise + Than with the fear to which I'm used; know me, + For it is Eviradnus that you see!" + + XVII. + + THE CLUB. + + As from the mist a noble pine we tell + Grown old upon the heights of Appenzel, + When morning freshness breathes round all the wood, + So Eviradnus now before them stood, + Opening his visor, which at once revealed + The snowy beard it had so well concealed. + Thin Sigismond was still as dog at gaze, + But Ladisläus leaped, and howl did raise, + And laughed and gnashed his teeth, till, like a cloud + That sudden bursts, his rage was all avowed. + "'Tis but an old man after all!" he cried. + + Then the great knight, who looked at both, replied, + "Oh, kings! an old man of my time can cope + With two much younger ones of yours, I hope. + To mortal combat I defy you both + Singly; or, if you will, I'm nothing loth + With two together to contend; choose here + From out the heap what weapon shall appear + Most fit. As you no cuirass wear, I see, + I will take off my own, for all must be + In order perfect—e'en your punishment." + + Then Eviradnus, true to his intent, + Stripped to his Utrecht jerkin; but the while + He calmly had disarmed—with dexterous guile + Had Ladisläus seized a knife that lay + Upon the damask cloth, and slipped away + His shoes; then barefoot, swiftly, silently + He crept behind the knight, with arm held high. + But Eviradnus was of all aware, + And turned upon the murderous weapon there, + And twisted it away; then in a trice + His strong colossal hand grasped like a vice + The neck of Ladisläus, who the blade + Now dropped; over his eyes a misty shade + Showed that the royal dwarf was near to death. + + "Traitor!" said Eviradnus in his wrath, + "I rather should have hewn your limbs away, + And left you crawling on your stumps, I say,— + But now die fast." + + Ghastly, with starting eyes, + The King without a cry or struggle dies. + One dead—but lo! the other stands bold-faced, + Defiant; for the knight, when he unlaced + His cuirass, had his trusty sword laid down, + And Sigismond now grasps it as his own. + The monster-youth laughed at the silv'ry beard, + And, sword in hand, a murderer glad appeared. + Crossing his arms, he cried, "'Tis my turn now!" + And the black mounted knights in solemn row + Were judges of the strife. Before them lay + The sleeping Mahaud—and not far away + The fatal pit, near which the champion knight + With evil Emperor must contend for right, + Though weaponless he was. And yawned the pit + Expectant which should be engulfed in it. + + "Now we shall see for whom this ready grave," + Said Sigismond, "you dog, whom naught can save!" + Aware was Eviradnus that if he + Turned for a blade unto the armory, + He would be instant pierced—what can he do? + The moment is for him supreme. But, lo! + He glances now at Ladisläus dead, + And with a smile triumphant and yet dread, + And air of lion caged to whom is shown + Some loophole of escape, he bends him down. + + "Ha! ha! no other club than this I need!" + He cried, as seizing in his hands with speed + The dead King's heels, the body lifted high, + Then to the frightened Emperor he came nigh, + And made him shake with horror and with fear, + The weapon all so ghastly did appear. + The head became the stone to this strange sling, + Of which the body was the potent string; + And while 'twas brandished in a deadly way, + The dislocated arms made monstrous play + With hideous gestures, as now upside down + The bludgeon corpse a giant force had grown. + "'Tis well!" said Eviradnus, and he cried, + "Arrange between yourselves, you two allied; + If hell-fire were extinguished, surely it + By such a contest might be all relit; + From kindling spark struck out from dead King's brow, + Batt'ring to death a living Emperor now." + + And Sigismond, thus met and horrified, + Recoiled to near the unseen opening wide; + The human club was raised, and struck again * * * + And Eviradnus did alone remain + All empty-handed—but he heard the sound + Of spectres two falling to depths profound; + Then, stooping o'er the pit, he gazed below, + And, as half-dreaming now, he murmured low, + "Tiger and jackal meet their portion here, + 'Tis well together they should disappear!" + + XVIII. + + DAYBREAK. + + Then lifts he Mahaud to the ducal chair, + And shuts the trap with noiseless, gentle care; + And puts in order everything around, + So that, on waking, naught should her astound. + + "No drop of blood the thing has cost," mused he, + "And that is best indeed." + + But suddenly + Some distant bells clang out. The mountains gray + Have scarlet tips, proclaiming dawning day; + The hamlets are astir, and crowds come out— + Bearing fresh branches of the broom—about + To seek their Lady, who herself awakes + Rosy as morn, just when the morning breaks; + Half-dreaming still, she ponders, can it be + Some mystic change has passed, for her to see + One old man in the place of two quite young! + Her wondering eyes search carefully and long. + It may be she regrets the change: meanwhile, + The valiant knight salutes her with a smile, + And then approaching her with friendly mien, + Says, "Madam, has your sleep all pleasant been?" + + MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0141" id="link2H_4_0141"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SOUDAN, THE SPHINXES, THE CUP, THE LAMP. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Zim-Zizimi, Soudan d'Égypte.")</i> + + {Bk. XVI. i.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Zim Zizimi—(of the Soudan of burnt Egypt, + The Commander of Believers, a Bashaw + Whose very robes were from Asia's greatest stript, + More powerful than any lion with resistless paw) + A master weighed on by his immense splendor— + Once had a dream when he was at his evening feast, + When the broad table smoked like a perfumed censer, + And its grateful odors the appetite increased. + The banquet was outspread in a hall, high as vast, + With pillars painted, and with ceiling bright with gold, + Upreared by Zim's ancestors in the days long past, + And added to till now worth a sum untold. + Howe'er rich no rarity was absent, it seemed, + Fruit blushed upon the side-boards, groaning 'neath rich meats, + With all the dainties palate ever dreamed + In lavishness to waste—for dwellers in the streets + Of cities, whether Troy, or Tyre, or Ispahan, + Consume, in point of cost, food at a single meal + Much less than what is spread before this crowned man—- + Who rules his couchant nation with a rod of steel, + And whose servitors' chiefest arts it was to squeeze + The world's full teats into his royal helpless mouth. + Each hard-sought dainty that never failed to please, + All delicacies, wines, from east, west, north or south, + Are plenty here—for Sultan Zizimi drinks wine + In its variety, trying to find what never sates. + Laughs at the holy writings and the text divine, + O'er which the humble dervish prays and venerates. + There is a common saying which holds often good: + That cruel is he who is sparing in his cups. + That they are such as are most thirsty of man's blood— + Yet he will see a slave beheaded whilst he sups. + But be this as it all may, glory gilds his reign, + He has overrun Africa, the old and black; + Asia as well—holding them both beneath a rain + Of bloody drops from scaffold, pyre, the stake, or rack, + To leave his empire's confines, one must run a race + Far past the river Baxtile southward; in the north, + To the rude, rocky, barren land of Thrace, + Yet near enough to shudder when great Zim is wroth. + Conquering in every field, he finds delight + In battle-storms; his music is the shout of camps. + On seeing him the eagle speeds away in fright, + Whilst hid 'mong rocks, the grisly wolf its victim champs. + Mysore's as well as Agra's rajah is his kin; + The great sheiks of the arid sands confess him lord; + Omar, who vaunting cried: "Through me doth Allah win!" + Was of his blood—a dreaded line of fire and sword. + The waters of Nagain, sands of Sahara warm, + The Atlas and the Caucasus, snow-capped and lone, + Mecca, Marcatta, these were massed in part to form + A portion of the giant shadow of Zim's throne. + Before his might, to theirs, as hardest rock to dust, + There have recoiled a horde of savage, warlike chiefs, + Who have been into Afric's fiery furnace thrust— + Its scorching heat to his rage greatest of reliefs. + There is no being but fears Zim; to him bows down + Even the sainted Llama in the holy place; + And the wild Kasburder chieftain at his dark power + Turns pale, and seeks a foeman of some lesser race. + Cities and states are bought and sold by Soudan Zim, + Whose simple word their thousand people hold as law. + He ruins them at will, for what are men to him, + More than to stabled cattle is the sheaf of straw? + + The Soudan is not pleased, for he is e'er alone, + For who may in his royal sports or joys be leagued. + He must never speak to any one in equal tones, + But be by his own dazzling weightiness fatigued. + He has exhausted all the pastimes of the earth; + In vain skilled men have fought with sword, the spear, or lance, + The quips and cranks most laughed at have to him no mirth; + He gives a regal yawn as fairest women dance; + Music has outpoured all its notes, the soft and loud, + But dully on his wearied ear its accents roll, + As dully as the praises of the servile crowd + Who falsely sing the purity of his black soul. + He has had before his daïs from the prison brought + Two thieves, whose terror makes their chains to loudly ring, + Then gaping most unkingly, he dismissed his slaves, + And tranquilly, half rising, looked around to seek + In the weighty stillness—such as broods round graves— + Something within his royal scope to which to speak. + + The throne, on which at length his eyes came back to rest, + Is upheld by rose-crowned Sphinxes, which lyres hold, + All cut in whitest marble, with uncovered breast, + While their eyes contain that enigma never told. + Each figure has its title carved upon its head: + <i>Health</i>, and <i>Voluptuousness, Greatness, Joy</i>, and <i>Play</i>, + With <i>Victory, Beauty, Happiness</i>, may be read, + Adorning brands they wear unblushing in the day. + + The Soudan cried: "O, Sphinxes, with the torch-like eye, + I am the Conqueror—my name is high-arrayed + In characters like flame upon the vaulted sky, + Far from oblivion's reach or an effacing shade. + Upon a sheaf of thunderbolts I rest my arm, + And gods might wish my exploits with them were their own. + I live—I am not open to the points of harm, + And e'en my throne will be with age an altar-stone. + When the time comes for me to cast off earthly robe, + And enter—being Day—into the realms of light, + The gods will say, we call Zizimi from his globe + That we may have our brother nearer to our sight! + Glory is but my menial, Pride my own chained slave, + Humbly standing when Zizimi is in his seat. + I scorn base man, and have sent thousands to the grave. + They are but as a rushen carpet to my feet. + Instead of human beings, eunuchs, blacks, or mutes, + Be yours, oh, Sphinxes, with the glad names on your fronts! + The task, with voice attuned to emulate the flute's, + To charm the king, whose chase is man, and wars his hunts. + + "Some portion of your splendor back on me reflect, + Sing out in praiseful chains of melodious links! + Oh, throne, which I with bloody spoils have so bedecked, + Speak to your lord! Speak you, the first rose-crested Sphinx!" + + Soon on the summons, once again was stillness broke, + For the ten figures, in a voice which all else drowned, + Parting their stony lips, alternatively spoke— + Spoke clearly, with a deeply penetrative sound. + + THE FIRST SPHINX. + + So lofty as to brush the heavens' dome, + Upon the highest terrace of her tomb + Is Queen Nitrocis, thinking all alone, + Upon her line, long tenants of the throne, + Terrors, scourges of the Greeks and Hebrews, + Harsh and bloodthirsty, narrow in their views. + Against the pure scroll of the sky, a blot, + Stands out her sepulchre, a fatal spot + That seems a baneful breath around to spread. + The birds which chance to near it, drop down dead. + The queen is now attended on by shades, + Which have replaced, in horrid guise, her maids. + No life is here—the law says such as bore + A corpse alone may enter through yon door. + Before, behind, around the queen, her sight + Encounters but the same blank void of night. + Above, the pilasters are like to bars, + And, through their gaps, the dead look at the stars, + While, till the dawn, around Nitrocis' bones, + Spectres hold council, crouching on the stones. + + THE SECOND SPHINX. + + Howe'er great is pharaoh, the magi, king, + Encompassed by an idolizing ring, + None is so high as Tiglath Pileser. + Who, like the God before whom pales the star, + Has temples, with a prophet for a priest, + Who serves up daily sacrilegious feast. + His anger there are none who dare provoke, + His very mildness is looked on as a yoke; + And under his, more feared than other rules, + He holds his people bound, like tamèd bulls. + Asia is banded with his paths of war; + He is more of a scourge than Attila. + He triumphs glorious—but, day by day, + The earth falls at his feet, piecemeal away; + And the bricks for his tomb's wall, one by one, + Are being shaped—are baking in the sun. + + THE THIRD SPHINX. + + Equal to archangel, for one short while, + Was Nimroud, builder of tall Babel's pile. + His sceptre reached across the space between + The sites where Sol to rise and set is seen. + Baal made him terrible to all alike, + The greatest cow'ring when he rose to strike. + Unbelief had shown in ev'ry eye, + Had any dared to say: "Nimroud will die!" + He lived and ruled, but is—at this time, where? + Winds blow free o'er his realm—a desert bare! + + THE FOURTH SPHINX. + + There is a statue of King Chrem of old, + Of unknown date and maker, but of gold. + How many grandest rulers in his day + Chrem pluckèd down, there are now none can say. + Whether he ruled with gentle hand or rough, + None know. He once was—no longer is—enough, + Crowned Time, whose seat is on a ruined mass, + Holds, and aye turns, a strange sand in his glass, + A sand scraped from the mould, brushed from the shroud + Of all passed things, mean, great, lowly, or proud. + Thus meting with the ashes of the dead + How hours of the living have quickly fled. + The sand runs, monarchs! the clepsydra weeps. + Wherefore? They see through future's gloomy deeps, + Through the church wall, into the catacomb, + And mark the change when thrones do graves become. + + THE FIFTH SPHINX. + + To swerve the earth seemed from its wonted path + When marched the Four of Asia in their wrath, + And when they were bound slaves to Cyrus' car, + The rivers shrank back from their banks afar. + "Who can this be," was Nineveh's appeal; + "Who dares to drag the gods at his car-wheel?" + The ground is still there that these wheel-rims tore— + The people and the armies are no more. + + THE SIXTH SPHINX. + + Never again Cambyses earth will tread. + He slept, and rotted, for his ghost had fled. + So long as sovereigns live, the subjects kneel, + Crouching like spaniels at their royal heel; + But when their might flies, they are shunned by all, + Save worms, which—human-like—still to them crawl + On Troy or Memphis, on Pyrrhus the Great, + Or on Psammeticus, alike falls fate. + Those who in rightful purple are arrayed, + The prideful vanquisher, like vanquished, fade. + Death grins as he the fallen man bestrides— + And less of faults than of his glories hides. + + THE SEVENTH SPHINX. + + The time is come for Belus' tomb to fall, + Long has been ruined its high granite wall; + And its cupola, sister of the cloud, + Has now to lowest mire its tall head bowed. + The herdsman comes to it to choose the stones + To build a hut, and overturns the bones, + From which he has just scared a jackal pack, + Waiting to gnaw them when he turns his back. + Upon this scene the night is doubly night, + And the lone passer vainly strains his sight, + Musing: Was Belus not buried near this spot? + The royal resting-place is now forgot. + + THE EIGHTH SPHINX. + + The inmates of the Pyramids assume + The hue of Rhamesis, black with the gloom. + A Jailer who ne'er needs bolts, bars, or hasps, + Is Death. With unawed hand a god he grasps, + He thrusts, to stiffen, in a narrow case, + Or cell, where struggling air-blasts constant moan; + Walling them round with huge, damp, slimy stone; + And (leaving mem'ry of bloodshed as drink, + And thoughts of crime as food) he stops each chink. + + THE NINTH SPHINX. + + Who would see Cleopatra on her bed? + Come in. The place is filled with fog like lead, + Which clammily has settled on the frame + Of her who was a burning, dazzling flame + To all mankind—who durst not lift their gaze, + And meet the brightness of her beauty's rays. + Her teeth were pearls, her breath a rare perfume. + Men died with love on entering her room. + Poised 'twixt the world and her—acme of joys! + Antony took her of the double choice. + The ice-cold heart that passion seldom warms, + Would find heat torrid in that queen's soft arms. + She won without a single woman's wile, + Illumining the earth with peerless smile. + Come in!—but muffle closely up your face, + No grateful scents have ta'en sweet odors' place. + + THE TENTH SPHINX. + + What did the greatest king that e'er earth bore, + Sennacherib? No matter—he's no more! + What were the words Sardanapalus said? + Who cares to hear—that ruler long is dead. + + The Soudan, turning pale, stared at the TEN aghast. + "Before to-morrow's night," he said, "in dust to rest, + These walls with croaking images shall be downcast; + I will not have fiends speak when angels are addressed." + But while Zim at the Sphinxes clenched his hand and shook, + The cup in which it seems the rich wine sweetly breathes, + The cup with jewels sparkling, met his lowered look, + Dwelling on the rim which the rippling wine enwreathes. + "Ha! You!" Zim cried, "have often cleared my heated head + Of heavy thoughts which your great lord have come to seek + And torture with their pain and weight like molten lead. + Let us two—power, I—you, wine—together speak." + + THE CUP. + + "Phur," spoke the Cup, "O king, dwelt as Day's god, + Ruled Alexandria with sword and rod. + He from his people drew force after force, + Leaving in ev'ry clime an army's corse. + But what gained he by having, like the sea, + Flooded with human waves to enslave the free? + Where lies the good in having been the chief + In conquering, to cause a nation's grief? + Darius, Assar-addon, Hamilcar; + Who have led men in legions out to war, + Or have o'er Time's shade cast rays from their seat, + Or throngs in worship made their name repeat, + These were, but all the cup of life have drank; + Rising 'midst clamor, they in stillness sank. + Death's dart beat down the sword—the kings high reared, + Were brought full low—judges, like culprits, feared. + The body—when the soul had ceased its sway— + Was placed where earth upon it heavy lay, + While seek the mouldering bones rare oils anoint + Claw of tree's root and tooth of rocky point. + Weeds thrive on them who made the world a mart + Of human flesh, plants force their joints apart. + No deed of eminence the greatest saves, + And of mausoleums make panthers caves." + + The Cup, Zim, in his fury, dashed upon the floor, + Crying aloud for lights. Slaves, at his angry call, + In to him hastily, a candelabra bore, + And set it, branching o'er the table, in the hall, + From whose wide bounds it hunted instantly the gloom. + "Ah, light!" exclaimed the Soudan, "welcome light, all hail! + Dull witnesses were yonder Sphinxes of this room; + The Cup was always drunk, in wit did ever fail; + But you fling gleams forth brightly, dazzling as a torch; + Vainly to quell your power all Night's attempts are spent; + The murky, black-eyed clouds you eat away and scorch, + Making where'er you spring to life an Orient. + To charm your lord give voice, thou spark of paradise! + Speak forth against the Sphinxes' enigmatic word, + And 'gainst the Wine-Cup, with its sharp and biting spice!" + + THE LAMP. + + Oh, Crusher of Countless Cities, such as earth knew + Scarce once before him, Ninus (who his brother slew), + Was borne within the walls which, in Assyrian rite, + Were built to hide dead majesty from outer sight. + If eye of man the gift uncommon could assume, + And pierce the mass, thick, black as hearse's plume, + To where lays on a horrifying bed + What was King Ninus, now hedged round with dread, + 'Twould see by what is shadow of the light, + A line of feath'ry dust, bones marble-white. + A shudder overtakes the pois'nous snakes + When they glide near that powder, laid in flakes. + Death comes at times to him—<i>Life</i> comes no more! + And sets a jug and loaf upon the floor. + He then with bony foot the corpse o'erturns, + And says: "It is I, Ninus! 'Tis Death who spurns! + I bring thee, hungry king, some bread and meat." + "I have no hands," Ninus replies. "Yet, eat!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Zim pierced to the very quick by these repeated stabs, + Sprang to his feet, while from him pealed a fearful shout, + And, furious, flung down upon the marble slabs + The richly carved and golden Lamp, whose light went out— + Then glided in a form strange-shaped, + In likeness of a woman, moulded in dense smoke, + Veiled in thick, ebon fog, in utter darkness draped, + A glimpse of which, in short, one's inmost fears awoke. + Zim was alone with her, this Goddess of the Night. + The massy walls of stone like vapor part and fade, + Zim, shuddering, tried to call guard or satellite, + But as the figure grasped him firmly, "Come!" she said. + + BP. ALEXANDER +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A QUEEN FIVE SUMMERS OLD. + + <i>("Elle est toute petite.")</i> + + {Bk. XXVI.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + She is so little—in her hands a rose: + A stern duenna watches where she goes, + What sees Old Spain's Infanta—the clear shine + Of waters shadowed by the birch and pine. + What lies before? A swan with silver wing, + The wave that murmurs to the branch's swing, + Or the deep garden flowering below? + Fair as an angel frozen into snow, + The royal child looks on, and hardly seems to know. + + As in a depth of glory far away, + Down in the green park, a lofty palace lay, + There, drank the deer from many a crystal pond, + And the starred peacock gemmed the shade beyond. + Around that child all nature shone more bright; + Her innocence was as an added light. + Rubies and diamonds strewed the grass she trode, + And jets of sapphire from the dolphins flowed. + + Still at the water's side she holds her place, + Her bodice bright is set with Genoa lace; + O'er her rich robe, through every satin fold, + Wanders an arabesque in threads of gold. + From its green urn the rose unfolding grand, + Weighs down the exquisite smallness of her hand. + And when the child bends to the red leafs tip, + Her laughing nostril, and her carmine lip, + The royal flower purpureal, kissing there, + Hides more than half that young face bright and fair, + So that the eye deceived can scarcely speak + Where shows the rose, or where the rose-red cheek. + Her eyes look bluer from their dark brown frame: + Sweet eyes, sweet form, and Mary's sweeter name. + All joy, enchantment, perfume, waits she there, + Heaven in her glance, her very name a prayer. + + Yet 'neath the sky, and before life and fate, + Poor child, she feels herself so vaguely great. + With stately grace she gives her presence high + To dawn, to spring, to shadows flitting by, + To the dark sunset glories of the heaven, + And all the wild magnificence of even; + On nature waits, eternal and serene, + With all the graveness of a little queen. + She never sees a man but on his knee, + She Duchess of Brabant one day will be, + Or rule Sardinia, or the Flemish crowd + She is the Infanta, five years old, and proud. + + Thus is it with kings' children, for they wear + A shadowy circlet on their forehead fair; + Their tottering steps are towards a kingly chair. + Calmly she waits, and breathes her gathered flower + Till one shall cull for her imperial power. + Already her eye saith, "It is my right;" + Even love flows from her, mingled with affright. + If some one seeing her so fragile stand, + Were it to save her, should put forth his hand, + Ere he had made a step, or breathed a vow, + The scaffold's shadow were upon his brow. + While the child laughs, beyond the bastion thick + Of that vast palace, Roman Catholic, + Whose every turret like a mitre shows, + Behind the lattice something dreadful goes. + Men shake to see a shadow from beneath + Passing from pane to pane, like vapory wreath, + Pale, black, and still it glides from room to room; + In the same spot, like ghost upon a tomb; + Or glues its dark brown to the casement wan, + Dim shade that lengthens as the night draws on. + Its step funereal lingers like the swing + Of passing bell—'tis death, or else the king. + 'Tis he, the man by whom men live and die; + But could one look beyond that phantom eye, + As by the wall he leans a little space, + And see what shadows fill his soul's dark place, + Not the fair child, the waters clear, the flowers + Golden with sunset—not the birds, the bowers— + No; 'neath that eye, those fatal brows that keep + The fathomless brain, like ocean, dark and deep, + There, as in moving mirage, should one find + A fleet of ships that go before the wind: + On the foamed wave, and 'neath the starlight pale, + The strain and rattle of a fleet in sail, + And through the fog an isle on her white rock + Hearkening from far the thunder's coming shock. + + Still by the water's edge doth silent stand + The Infanta with the rose-flower in her hand, + Caresses it with eyes as blue as heaven; + Sudden a breeze, such breeze as panting even + From her full heart flings out to field and brake, + Ruffles the waters, bids the rushes shake, + And makes through all their green recesses swell + The massive myrtle and the asphodel. + To the fair child it comes, and tears away + On its strong wing the rose-flower from the spray. + On the wild waters casts it bruised and torn, + And the Infanta only holds a thorn. + Frightened, perplexed, she follows with her eyes + Into the basin where her ruin lies, + Looks up to heaven, and questions of the breeze + That had not feared her highness to displease; + But all the pond is changed; anon so clear, + Now back it swells, as though with rage and fear; + A mimic sea its small waves rise and fall, + And the poor rose is broken by them all. + Its hundred leaves tossed wildly round and round + Beneath a thousand waves are whelmed and drowned; + It was a foundering fleet you might have said; + And the duenna with her face of shade,— + "Madam," for she had marked her ruffled mind, + "All things belong to princes—but God's wind." + + BP. ALEXANDER +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0142" id="link2H_4_0142"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SEA-ADVENTURERS' SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("En partant du Golfe d'Otrante.")</i> + + {Bk. XXVIII.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We told thirty when we started + From port so taut and fine, + But soon our crew were parted, + Till now we number nine. + + Tom Robbins, English, tall and straight, + Left us at Aetna light; + He left us to investigate + What made the mountain bright; + "I mean to ask Old Nick himself, + (And here his eye he rolls) + If I can't bring Newcastle pelf + By selling him some coals!" + + In Calabree, a lass and cup + Drove scowling Spada wild: + She only held her finger up, + And there he drank and smiled; + And over in Gaëta Bay, + Ascanio—ashore + A fool!—must wed a widow gay + Who'd buried three or four. + + At Naples, woe! poor Ned they hanged— + Hemp neckcloth he disdained— + And prettily we all were banged— + And two more blades remained + + To serve the Duke, and row in chains— + Thank saints! 'twas not my cast! + We drank deliverance from pains— + We who'd the ducats fast. + + At Malta Dick became a monk— + (What vineyards have those priests!) + And Gobbo to quack-salver sunk, + To leech vile murrained beasts; + And lazy André, blown off shore, + Was picked up by the Turk, + And in some harem, you be sure, + Is forced at last to work. + + Next, three of us whom nothing daunts, + Marched off with Prince Eugene, + To take Genoa! oh, it vaunts + Girls fit—each one—for queen! + Had they but promised us the pick, + Perchance we had joined, all; + But battering bastions built of brick— + Bah, give me wooden wall! + + By Leghorn, twenty caravels + Came 'cross our lonely sail— + Spinoza's Sea-Invincibles! + But, whew! our shots like hail + Made shortish work of galley long + And chubby sailing craft— + Our making ready first to close + Sent them a-spinning aft. + + Off Marseilles, ne'er by sun forsook + We friends fell-to as foes! + For Lucca Diavolo mistook + Angelo's wife for Rose, + + And hang me! soon the angel slid + The devil in the sea, + And would of lass likewise be rid— + And so we fought it free! + + At Palmas eight or so gave slip, + Pescara to pursue, + And more, perchance, had left the ship, + But Algiers loomed in view; + And here we cruised to intercept + Some lucky-laden rogues, + Whose gold-galleons but slowly crept, + So that we trounced the dogs! + + And after making war out there, + We made love at "the Gib." + We ten—no more! we took it fair, + And kissed the gov'nor's "rib," + And made the King of Spain our take, + Believe or not, who cares? + I tell ye that he begged till black + I' the face to have his shares. + + We're rovers of the restless main, + But we've some conscience, mark! + And we know what it is to reign, + And finally did heark— + Aye, masters of the narrow Neck, + We hearkened to our heart, + And gave him freedom on our deck, + His town, and gold—in part. + + My lucky mates for that were made + Grandees of Old Castile, + And maids of honor went to wed, + Somewhere in sweet Seville; + + Not they for me were fair enough, + And so his Majesty + Declared his daughter—'tis no scoff! + My beauteous bride should be. + + "A royal daughter!" think of that! + But I would never one. + I have a lass (I said it pat) + Who's not been bred like nun— + But, merry maid with eagle eye, + It's proud she smiles and bright, + And sings upon the cliff, to spy + My ship a-heave in sight! + + My Faenzetta has my heart! + In Fiesoné she + The fairest! Nothing shall us part, + Saving, in sooth, the Sea! + And that not long! its rolling wave + And such breeze holding now + Will send me along to her I love— + And so I made my bow. + + We told thirty when we started + From port so taut and fine, + But thus our crew were parted, + And now we number nine. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0143" id="link2H_4_0143"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SWISS MERCENARIES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Lorsque le regiment des hallebardiers.")</i> + + {Bk. XXXI.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When the regiment of Halberdiers + Is proudly marching by, + The eagle of the mountain screams + From out his stormy sky; + Who speaketh to the precipice, + And to the chasm sheer; + Who hovers o'er the thrones of kings, + And bids the caitiffs fear. + King of the peak and glacier, + King of the cold, white scalps— + He lifts his head, at that close tread, + The eagle of the Alps. + + O shame! those men that march below— + O ignominy dire! + Are the sons of my free mountains + Sold for imperial hire. + Ah! the vilest in the dungeon! + Ah! the slave upon the seas— + Is great, is pure, is glorious, + Is grand compared with these, + Who, born amid my holy rocks, + In solemn places high, + Where the tall pines bend like rushes + When the storm goes sweeping by; + + Yet give the strength of foot they learned + By perilous path and flood, + And from their blue-eyed mothers won, + The old, mysterious blood; + The daring that the good south wind + Into their nostrils blew, + And the proud swelling of the heart + With each pure breath they drew; + The graces of the mountain glens, + With flowers in summer gay; + And all the glories of the hills + To earn a lackey's pay. + + Their country free and joyous— + She of the rugged sides— + She of the rough peaks arrogant + Whereon the tempest rides: + Mother of the unconquered thought + And of the savage form, + Who brings out of her sturdy heart + The hero and the storm: + Who giveth freedom unto man, + And life unto the beast; + Who hears her silver torrents ring + Like joy-bells at a feast; + + Who hath her caves for palaces, + And where her châlets stand— + The proud, old archer of Altorf, + With his good bow in his hand. + Is she to suckle jailers? + Shall shame and glory rest, + Amid her lakes and glaciers, + Like twins upon her breast? + Shall the two-headed eagle, + Marked with her double blow, + Drink of her milk through all those hearts + Whose blood he bids to flow? + + Say, was it pomp ye needed, + And all the proud array + Of courtly joust and high parade + Upon a gala day? + Look up; have not my valleys + Their torrents white with foam— + Their lines of silver bullion + On the blue hillocks of home? + Doth not sweet May embroider + My rocks with pearls and flowers? + Her fingers trace a richer lace + Than yours in all my bowers. + + Are not my old peaks gilded + When the sun arises proud, + And each one shakes a white mist plume + Out of the thunder-cloud? + O, neighbor of the golden sky— + Sons of the mountain sod— + Why wear a base king's colors + For the livery of God? + O shame! despair! to see my Alps + Their giant shadows fling + Into the very waiting-room + Of tyrant and of king! + + O thou deep heaven, unsullied yet, + Into thy gulfs sublime— + Up azure tracts of flaming light— + Let my free pinion climb; + Till from my sight, in that clear light, + Earth and her crimes be gone— + The men who act the evil deeds— + The caitiffs who look on. + Far, far into that space immense, + Beyond the vast white veil, + Where distant stars come out and shine, + And the great sun grows pale. + + BP. ALEXANDER +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0144" id="link2H_4_0144"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CUP ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Mon pére, ce héros au sourire.")</i> + + {Bk. XLIX. iv.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My sire, the hero with the smile so soft, + And a tall trooper, his companion oft, + Whom he loved greatly for his courage high + And strength and stature, as the night drew nigh + Rode out together. The battle was done; + The dead strewed the field; long sunk was the sun. + It seemed in the darkness a sound they heard,— + Was it feeble moaning or uttered word? + 'Twas a Spaniard left from the force in flight, + Who had crawled to the roadside after fight; + Shattered and livid, less live than dead, + Rattled his throat as hoarsely he said: + "Water, water to drink, for pity's sake! + Oh, a drop of water this thirst to slake!" + My father, moved at his speech heart-wrung, + Handed the orderly, downward leapt, + The flask of rum at the holster kept. + "Let him have some!" cried my father, as ran + The trooper o'er to the wounded man,— + A sort of Moor, swart, bloody and grim; + But just as the trooper was nearing him, + He lifted a pistol, with eye of flame, + And covered my father with murd'rous aim. + The hurtling slug grazed the very head, + And the helmet fell, pierced, streaked with red, + And the steed reared up; but in steady tone: + "Give him the whole!" said my father, "and on!" + + TORU DUTT +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0145" id="link2H_4_0145"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOW GOOD ARE THE POOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Il est nuit. La cabane est pauvre.")</i> + + {Bk. LII. iii.} + + 'Tis night—within the close stout cabin door, + The room is wrapped in shade save where there fall + Some twilight rays that creep along the floor, + And show the fisher's nets upon the wall. + + In the dim corner, from the oaken chest, + A few white dishes glimmer; through the shade + Stands a tall bed with dusky curtains dressed, + And a rough mattress at its side is laid. + + Five children on the long low mattress lie— + A nest of little souls, it heaves with dreams; + In the high chimney the last embers die, + And redden the dark room with crimson gleams. + + The mother kneels and thinks, and pale with fear, + She prays alone, hearing the billows shout: + While to wild winds, to rocks, to midnight drear, + The ominous old ocean sobs without. + + Poor wives of fishers! Ah! 'tis sad to say, + Our sons, our husbands, all that we love best, + Our hearts, our souls, are on those waves away, + Those ravening wolves that know not ruth, nor rest. + + Think how they sport with these beloved forms; + And how the clarion-blowing wind unties + Above their heads the tresses of the storms: + Perchance even now the child, the husband, dies. + + For we can never tell where they may be + Who, to make head against the tide and gale, + Between them and the starless, soulless sea + Have but one bit of plank, with one poor sail. + + Terrible fear! We seek the pebbly shore, + Cry to the rising billows, "Bring them home." + Alas! what answer gives their troubled roar, + To the dark thought that haunts us as we roam. + + Janet is sad: her husband is alone, + Wrapped in the black shroud of this bitter night: + + His children are so little, there is none + To give him aid. "Were they but old, they might." + Ah, mother! when they too are on the main, + How wilt thou weep: "Would they were young again!" + + She takes his lantern—'tis his hour at last + She will go forth, and see if the day breaks, + And if his signal-fire be at the mast; + Ah, no—not yet—no breath of morning wakes. + + No line of light o'er the dark water lies; + It rains, it rains, how black is rain at morn: + The day comes trembling, and the young dawn cries— + Cries like a baby fearing to be born. + + Sudden her humane eyes that peer and watch + Through the deep shade, a mouldering dwelling find, + No light within—the thin door shakes—the thatch + O'er the green walls is twisted of the wind, + + Yellow, and dirty, as a swollen rill, + "Ah, me," she saith, "here does that widow dwell; + Few days ago my good man left her ill: + I will go in and see if all be well." + + She strikes the door, she listens, none replies, + And Janet shudders. "Husbandless, alone, + And with two children—they have scant supplies. + Good neighbor! She sleeps heavy as a stone." + + She calls again, she knocks, 'tis silence still; + No sound—no answer—suddenly the door, + As if the senseless creature felt some thrill + Of pity, turned—and open lay before. + + She entered, and her lantern lighted all + The house so still, but for the rude waves' din. + Through the thin roof the plashing rain-drops fall, + But something terrible is couched within. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "So, for the kisses that delight the flesh, + For mother's worship, and for children's bloom, + For song, for smile, for love so fair and fresh, + For laugh, for dance, there is one goal—the tomb." + + And why does Janet pass so fast away? + What hath she done within that house of dread? + What foldeth she beneath her mantle gray? + And hurries home, and hides it in her bed: + With half-averted face, and nervous tread, + What hath she stolen from the awful dead? + + The dawn was whitening over the sea's verge + As she sat pensive, touching broken chords + Of half-remorseful thought, while the hoarse surge + Howled a sad concert to her broken words. + + "Ah, my poor husband! we had five before, + Already so much care, so much to find, + For he must work for all. I give him more. + What was that noise? His step! Ah, no! the wind. + + "That I should be afraid of him I love! + I have done ill. If he should beat me now, + I would not blame him. Did not the door move? + Not yet, poor man." She sits with careful brow + Wrapped in her inward grief; nor hears the roar + Of winds and waves that dash against his prow, + Nor the black cormorant shrieking on the shore. + + Sudden the door flies open wide, and lets + Noisily in the dawn-light scarcely clear, + And the good fisher, dragging his damp nets, + Stands on the threshold, with a joyous cheer. + + "'Tis thou!" she cries, and, eager as a lover, + Leaps up and holds her husband to her breast; + Her greeting kisses all his vesture cover; + "'Tis I, good wife!" and his broad face expressed + + How gay his heart that Janet's love made light. + "What weather was it?" "Hard." "Your fishing?" "Bad. + The sea was like a nest of thieves to-night; + But I embrace thee, and my heart is glad. + + "There was a devil in the wind that blew; + I tore my net, caught nothing, broke my line, + And once I thought the bark was broken too; + What did you all the night long, Janet mine?" + + She, trembling in the darkness, answered, "I! + Oh, naught—I sew'd, I watch'd, I was afraid, + The waves were loud as thunders from the sky; + But it is over." Shyly then she said— + + "Our neighbor died last night; it must have been + When you were gone. She left two little ones, + So small, so frail—William and Madeline; + The one just lisps, the other scarcely runs." + + The man looked grave, and in the corner cast + His old fur bonnet, wet with rain and sea, + Muttered awhile, and scratched his head,—at last + "We have five children, this makes seven," said he. + + "Already in bad weather we must sleep + Sometimes without our supper. Now! Ah, well— + 'Tis not my fault. These accidents are deep; + It was the good God's will. I cannot tell. + + "Why did He take the mother from those scraps, + No bigger than my fist. 'Tis hard to read; + A learned man might understand, perhaps— + So little, they can neither work nor need. + + "Go fetch them, wife; they will be frightened sore, + If with the dead alone they waken thus. + That was the mother knocking at our door, + And we must take the children home to us. + + "Brother and sister shall they be to ours, + And they will learn to climb my knee at even; + When He shall see these strangers in our bowers, + More fish, more food, will give the God of Heaven. + + "I will work harder; I will drink no wine— + Go fetch them. Wherefore dost thou linger, dear? + Not thus were wont to move those feet of thine." + She drew the curtain, saying, "They are here!" + + BP. ALEXANDER +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0146" id="link2H_4_0146"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0147" id="link2H_4_0147"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MENTANA. {1} + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (VICTOR HUGO TO GARIBALDI.) + + <i>("Ces jeunes gens, combien étaient-ils.")</i> + + {LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY, December, 1868.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + Young soldiers of the noble Latin blood, + How many are ye—Boys? Four thousand odd. + How many are there dead? Six hundred: count! + Their limbs lie strewn about the fatal mount, + Blackened and torn, eyes gummed with blood, hearts rolled + Out from their ribs, to give the wolves of the wold + A red feast; nothing of them left but these + Pierced relics, underneath the olive trees, + Show where the gin was sprung—the scoundrel-trap + Which brought those hero-lads their foul mishap. + See how they fell in swathes—like barley-ears! + Their crime? to claim Rome and her glories theirs; + To fight for Right and Honor;—foolish names! + Come—Mothers of the soil! Italian dames! + Turn the dead over!—try your battle luck! + (Bearded or smooth, to her that gave him suck + The man is always child)—Stay, here's a brow + Split by the Zouaves' bullets! This one, now, + With the bright curly hair soaked so in blood, + Was yours, ma donna!—sweet and fair and good. + + The spirit sat upon his fearless face + Before they murdered it, in all the grace + Of manhood's dawn. Sisters, here's yours! his lips, + Over whose bloom the bloody death-foam slips, + Lisped house-songs after you, and said your name + In loving prattle once. That hand, the same + Which lies so cold over the eyelids shut, + Was once a small pink baby-fist, and wet + With milk beads from thy yearning breasts. + + Take thou + Thine eldest,—thou, thy youngest born. Oh, flow + Of tears never to cease! Oh, Hope quite gone, + Dead like the dead!—Yet could they live alone— + Without their Tiber and their Rome? and be + Young and Italian—and not also free? + They longed to see the ancient eagle try + His lordly pinions in a modern sky. + They bore—each on himself—the insults laid + On the dear foster-land: of naught afraid, + Save of not finding foes enough to dare + For Italy. Ah; gallant, free, and rare + Young martyrs of a sacred cause,—Adieu! + No more of life—no more of love—for you! + No sweet long-straying in the star-lit glades + At Ave-Mary, with the Italian maids; + No welcome home! + + II. + + This Garibaldi now, the Italian boys + Go mad to hear him—take to dying—take + To passion for "the pure and high";—God's sake! + It's monstrous, horrible! One sees quite clear + Society—our charge—must shake with fear, + And shriek for help, and call on us to act + When there's a hero, taken in the fact. + If Light shines in the dark, there's guilt in that! + What's viler than a lantern to a bat? + + III. + + Your Garibaldi missed the mark! You see + The end of life's to cheat, and not to be + Cheated: The knave is nobler than the fool! + Get all you can and keep it! Life's a pool, + The best luck wins; if Virtue starves in rags, + I laugh at Virtue; here's my money-bags! + Here's righteous metal! We have kings, I say, + To keep cash going, and the game at play; + There's why a king wants money—he'd be missed + Without a fertilizing civil list. + Do but try + The question with a steady moral eye! + The colonel strives to be a brigadier, + The marshal, constable. Call the game fair, + And pay your winners! Show the trump, I say! + A renegade's a rascal—till the day + They make him Pasha: is he rascal then? + What with these sequins? Bah! you speak to Men, + And Men want money—power—luck—life's joy— + Those take who can: we could, and fobbed Savoy; + For those who live content with honest state, + They're public pests; knock we 'em on the pate! + They set a vile example! Quick—arrest + That Fool, who ruled and failed to line his nest. + Just hit a bell, you'll see the clapper shake— + Meddle with Priests, you'll find the barrack wake— + Ah! Princes know the People's a tight boot, + March 'em sometimes to be shot and to shoot, + Then they'll wear easier. So let them preach + The righteousness of howitzers; and teach + At the fag end of prayer: "Now, slit their throats! + My holy Zouaves! my good yellow-coats!" + We like to see the Holy Father send + Powder and steel and lead without an end, + To feed Death fat; and broken battles mend. + So they! + + IV. + + But thou, our Hero, baffled, foiled, + The Glorious Chief who vainly bled and toiled. + The trust of all the Peoples—Freedom's Knight! + The Paladin unstained—the Sword of Right! + What wilt thou do, whose land finds thee but jails! + The banished claim the banished! deign to cheer + The refuge of the homeless—enter here, + And light upon our households dark will fall + Even as thou enterest. Oh, Brother, all, + Each one of us—hurt with thy sorrows' proof, + Will make a country for thee of his roof. + Come, sit with those who live as exiles learn: + Come! Thou whom kings could conquer but not yet turn. + We'll talk of "Palermo"{2}—"the Thousand" true, + Will tell the tears of blood of France to you; + Then by his own great Sea we'll read, together, + Old Homer in the quiet summer weather, + And after, thou shalt go to thy desire + While that faint star of Justice grows to fire.{3} + + V. + + Oh, Italy! hail your Deliverer, + Oh, Nations! almost he gave Rome to her! + Strong-arm and prophet-heart had all but come + To win the city, and to make it "Rome." + Calm, of the antique grandeur, ripe to be + Named with the noblest of her history. + He would have Romanized your Rome—controlled + Her glory, lordships, Gods, in a new mould. + Her spirits' fervor would have melted in + The hundred cities with her; made a twin + Vesuvius and the Capitol; and blended + Strong Juvenal's with the soul, tender and splendid, + Of Dante—smelted old with new alloy— + Stormed at the Titans' road full of bold joy + Whereby men storm Olympus. Italy, + Weep!—This man could have made one Rome of thee! + + VI. + + But the crime's wrought! Who wrought it? + Honest Man— + Priest Pius? No! Each does but what he can. + Yonder's the criminal! The warlike wight + Who hides behind the ranks of France to fight, + Greek Sinon's blood crossed thick with Judas-Jew's, + The Traitor who with smile which true men woos, + Lip mouthing pledges—hand grasping the knife— + Waylaid French Liberty, and took her life. + Kings, he is of you! fit companion! one + Whom day by day the lightning looks upon + Keen; while the sentenced man triples his guard + And trembles; for his hour approaches hard. + Ye ask me "when?" I say <i>soon</i>! Hear ye not + Yon muttering in the skies above the spot? + Mark ye no coming shadow, Kings? the shroud + Of a great storm driving the thunder-cloud? + Hark! like the thief-catcher who pulls the pin, + God's thunder asks to <i>speak to one within</i>! + + VII. + + And meanwhile this death-odor—this corpse-scent + Which makes the priestly incense redolent + Of rotting men, and the Te Deums stink— + Reeks through the forests—past the river's brink, + O'er wood and plain and mountain, till it fouls + Fair Paris in her pleasures; then it prowls, + A deadly stench, to Crete, to Mexico, + To Poland—wheresoe'er kings' armies go: + And Earth one Upas-tree of bitter sadness, + Opening vast blossoms of a bloody madness. + Throats cut by thousands—slain men by the ton! + Earth quite corpse-cumbered, though the half not done! + They lie, stretched out, where the blood-puddles soak, + Their black lips gaping with the last cry spoke. + "Stretched;" nay! <i>sown broadcast</i>; yes, the word is "sown." + The fallows Liberty—the harsh wind blown + Over the furrows, Fate: and these stark dead + Are grain sublime, from Death's cold fingers shed + To make the Abyss conceive: the Future bear + More noble Heroes! Swell, oh, Corpses dear! + Rot quick to the green blade of Freedom! Death! + Do thy kind will with them! They without breath, + Stripped, scattered, ragged, festering, slashed and blue, + Dangle towards God the arms French shot tore through + And wait in meekness, Death! for Him and You! + + VIII. + + Oh, France! oh, People! sleeping unabashed! + Liest thou like a hound when it was lashed? + Thou liest! thine own blood fouling both thy hands, + And on thy limbs the rust of iron bands, + And round thy wrists the cut where cords went deep. + Say did they numb thy soul, that thou didst sleep? + Alas! sad France is grown a cave for sleeping, + Which a worse night than Midnight holds in keeping, + Thou sleepest sottish—lost to life and fame— + While the stars stare on thee, and pale for shame. + Stir! rouse thee! Sit! if thou know'st not to rise; + Sit up, thou tortured sluggard! ope thine eyes! + Stretch thy brawn, Giant! Sleep is foul and vile! + Art fagged, art deaf, art dumb? art blind this while? + They lie who say so! Thou dost know and feel + The things they do to thee and thine. The heel + That scratched thy neck in passing—whose? Canst say? + Yes, yes, 'twas <i>his</i>, and this is his <i>fête-day</i>. + Oh, thou that wert of humankind—couched so— + A beast of burden on this dunghill! oh! + Bray to them, Mule! Oh, Bullock! bellow then! + Since they have made thee blind, grope in thy den! + Do something, Outcast One, that wast so grand! + Who knows if thou putt'st forth thy poor maimed hand, + There may be venging weapon within reach! + Feel with both hands—with both huge arms go stretch + Along the black wall of thy cellar. Nay, + There <i>may</i> be some odd thing hidden away? + Who knows—there <i>may</i>! Those great hands might so come + In course of ghastly fumble through the gloom, + Upon a sword—a <i>sword</i>! The hands once clasp + Its hilt, must wield it with a Victor's grasp. + + EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I. + + {Footnote 1: The Battle of Mentana, so named from a village by Rome, was + fought between the allied French and Papal Armies and the Volunteer Forces + of Garibaldi, Nov. 3, 1867.} + + {Footnote 2: Palermo was taken immediately after the Garibaldian + volunteers, 1000 strong, landed at Marsala to inaugurate the rising which + made Italy free.} + + {Footnote 3: Both poet and his idol lived to see the French Republic for + the fourth time proclaimed. When Hugo rose in the Senate, on the first + occasion after his return to Paris after the expulsion of the Napoleons, + and his white head was seen above that of Rouher, ex-Prime Minister of the + Empire, all the house shuddered, and in a nearly unanimous voice shouted: + "The judgment of God! expiation!"} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0148" id="link2H_4_0148"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LES CHANSONS DES RUES ET DES BOIS. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0149" id="link2H_4_0149"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVE OF THE WOODLAND. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Orphée au bois du Caystre.")</i> + + {Bk. I. ii.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Orpheus, through the hellward wood + Hurried, ere the eve-star glowed, + For the fauns' lugubrious hoots + Followed, hollow, from crookèd roots; + Aeschylus, where Aetna smoked, + Gods of Sicily evoked + With the flute, till sulphur taint + Dulled and lulled the echoes faint; + Pliny, soon his style mislaid, + Dogged Miletus' merry maid, + As she showed eburnean limbs + All-multiplied by brooklet brims; + Plautus, see! like Plutus, hold + Bosomfuls of orchard-gold, + Learns he why that mystic core + Was sweet Venus' meed of yore? + Dante dreamt (while spirits pass + As in wizard's jetty glass) + Each black-bossed Briarian trunk + Waved live arms like furies drunk; + Winsome Will, 'neath Windsor Oak, + Eyed each elf that cracked a joke + At poor panting grease-hart fast— + Obese, roguish Jack harassed; + At Versailles, Molière did court + Cues from Pan (in heron port, + Half in ooze, half treeward raised), + "Words so witty, that Boileau's 'mazed!" + + Foliage! fondly you attract! + Dian's faith I keep intact, + And declare that thy dryads dance + Still, and will, in thy green expanse! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0150" id="link2H_4_0150"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SHOOTING STARS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + {FOR MY LITTLE CHILD ONLY.} + + <i>("Tas de feux tombants.")</i> + + {Bk. III. vii.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See the scintillating shower! + Like a burst from golden mine— + Incandescent coals that pour + From the incense-bowl divine, + And around us dewdrops, shaken, + Mirror each a twinkling ray + 'Twixt the flowers that awaken + In this glory great as day. + Mists and fogs all vanish fleetly; + And the birds begin to sing, + Whilst the rain is murm'ring sweetly + As if angels echoing. + And, methinks, to show she's grateful + For this seed from heaven come, + Earth is holding up a plateful + Of the birds and buds a-bloom! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2Hterrible" id="link2Hterrible"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + L'ANNÉE TERRIBLE. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0151" id="link2H_4_0151"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO LITTLE JEANNE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Vous eûtes donc hier un an.")</i> + + {September, 1870.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child, + Prattling thus happily! So fledglings wild, + New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough, + Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow. + Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne! In these volumes grand + Whose pictures please you—while I trembling stand + To see their big leaves tattered by your hand— + Are noble lines; but nothing half your worth, + When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth + To welcome me. No work of author wise + Can match the thought half springing to your eyes, + And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange, + Regarding man with all the boundless range + Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear + That God's not far, Jeanne, when I see you here. + + Ah! twelve months old: 'tis quite an age, and brings + Grave moments, though your soul to rapture clings, + You're at that hour of life most like to heaven, + When present joy no cares, no sorrows leaven + When man no shadow feels: if fond caress + Round parent twines, children the world possess. + Your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and love + From Charles to Alice, father to mother, rove; + No wider range of view your heart can take + Than what her nursing and his bright smiles make; + They two alone on this your opening hour + Can gleams of tenderness and gladness pour: + They two—none else, Jeanne! Yet 'tis just, and I, + Poor grandsire, dare but to stand humbly by. + You come—I go: though gloom alone my right, + Blest be the destiny which gives you light. + + Your fair-haired brother George and you beside + Me play—in watching you is all my pride; + And all I ask—by countless sorrows tried— + The grave; o'er which in shadowy form may show + Your cradles gilded by the morning's glow. + + Pure new-born wonderer! your infant life + Strange welcome found, Jeanne, in this time of strife. + Like wild-bee humming through the woods your play, + And baby smiles have dared a world at bay: + Your tiny accents lisp their gentle charms + To mighty Paris clashing mighty arms. + Ah! when I see you, child, and when I hear + You sing, or try, with low voice whispering near, + And touch of fingers soft, my grief to cheer, + I dream this darkness, where the tempests groan, + Trembles, and passes with half-uttered moan. + For though these hundred towers of Paris bend, + Though close as foundering ship her glory's end, + Though rocks the universe, which we defend; + Still to great cannon on our ramparts piled, + God sends His blessing by a little child. + + MARWOOD TUCKER. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0152" id="link2H_4_0152"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A SICK CHILD DURING THE SIEGE OF PARIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Si vous continuez toute pâle.")</i> + + {November, 1870.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If you continue thus so wan and white; + If I, one day, behold + You pass from out our dull air to the light, + You, infant—I, so old: + If I the thread of our two lives must see + Thus blent to human view, + I who would fain know death was near to me, + And far away for you; + If your small hands remain such fragile things; + If, in your cradle stirred, + You have the mien of waiting there for wings, + Like to some new-fledged bird; + Not rooted to our earth you seem to be. + If still, beneath the skies, + You turn, O Jeanne, on our mystery + Soft, discontented eyes! + If I behold you, gay and strong no more; + If you mope sadly thus; + If you behind you have not shut the door, + Through which you came to us; + If you no more like some fair dame I see + Laugh, walk, be well and gay; + If like a little soul you seem to me + That fain would fly away— + I'll deem that to this world, where oft are blent + The pall and swaddling-band, + You came but to depart—an angel sent + To bear me from the land. + + LUCY H. HOOPER. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0153" id="link2H_4_0153"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CARRIER PIGEON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Oh! qu'est-ce que c'est donc que l'Inconnu.")</i> + + {January, 1871.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who then—oh, who, is like our God so great, + Who makes the seed expand beneath the mountain's weight; + Who for a swallow's nest leaves one old castle wall, + Who lets for famished beetles savory apples fall, + Who bids a pigmy win where Titans fail, in yoke, + And, in what we deem fruitless roar and smoke, + Makes Etna, Chimborazo, still His praises sing, + And saves a city by a word lapped 'neath a pigeon's wing! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0154" id="link2H_4_0154"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TOYS AND TRAGEDY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Enfants, on vous dira plus tard.")</i> + + {January, 1871.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In later years, they'll tell you grandpapa + Adored his little darlings; for them did + His utmost just to pleasure them and mar + No moments with a frown or growl amid + Their rosy rompings; that he loved them so + (Though men have called him bitter, cold, and stern,) + That in the famous winter when the snow + Covered poor Paris, he went, old and worn, + To buy them dolls, despite the falling shells, + At which laughed Punch, and they, and shook his bells. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0155" id="link2H_4_0155"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOURNING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Charle! ô mon fils!")</i> + + {March, 1871.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Charles, Charles, my son! hast thou, then, quitted me? + Must all fade, naught endure? + Hast vanished in that radiance, clear for thee, + But still for us obscure? + + My sunset lingers, boy, thy morn declines! + Sweet mutual love we've known; + For man, alas! plans, dreams, and smiling twines + With others' souls his own. + + He cries, "This has no end!" pursues his way: + He soon is downward bound: + He lives, he suffers; in his grasp one day + Mere dust and ashes found. + + I've wandered twenty years, in distant lands, + With sore heart forced to stay: + Why fell the blow Fate only understands! + God took my home away. + + To-day one daughter and one son remain + Of all my goodly show: + Wellnigh in solitude my dark hours wane; + God takes my children now. + + Linger, ye two still left me! though decays + Our nest, our hearts remain; + In gloom of death your mother silent prays, + I in this life of pain. + + Martyr of Sion! holding Thee in sight, + I'll drain this cup of gall, + And scale with step resolved that dangerous height, + Which rather seems a fall. + + Truth is sufficient guide; no more man needs + Than end so nobly shown. + Mourning, but brave, I march; where duty leads, + I seek the vast unknown. + + MARWOOD TUCKER. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0156" id="link2H_4_0156"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LESSON OF THE PATRIOT DEAD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("O caresse sublime.")</i> + + {April, 1871.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Upon the grave's cold mouth there ever have caresses clung + For those who died ideally good and grand and pure and young; + Under the scorn of all who clamor: "There is nothing just!" + And bow to dread inquisitor and worship lords of dust; + Let sophists give the lie, hearts droop, and courtiers play the worm, + Our martyrs of Democracy the Truth sublime affirm! + And when all seems inert upon this seething, troublous round, + And when the rashest knows not best to flee ar stand his ground, + When not a single war-cry from the sombre mass will rush, + When o'er the universe is spread by Doubting utter hush, + Then he who searches well within the walls that close immure + Our teachers, leaders, heroes slain because they lived too pure, + May glue his ear upon the ground where few else came to grieve, + And ask the austere shadows: "Ho! and must one still believe? + Read yet the orders: 'Forward, march!' and 'charge!'" Then from the lime, + Which burnt the bones but left the soul (Oh! tyrants' useless crime!) + Will rise reply: "Yes!" "yes!" and "yes!" the thousand, thousandth time! + + H.L.W. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0157" id="link2H_4_0157"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BOY ON THE BARRICADE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Sur une barricade.")</i> + + {June, 1871.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Like Casabianca on the devastated deck, + In years yet younger, but the selfsame core. + Beside the battered barricado's restless wreck, + A lad stood splashed with gouts of guilty gore, + But gemmed with purest blood of patriot more. + + Upon his fragile form the troopers' bloody grip + Was deeply dug, while sharply challenged they: + "Were you one of this currish crew?"—pride pursed his lip, + As firm as bandog's, brought the bull to bay— + While answered he: "I fought with others. Yea!" + + "Prepare then to be shot! Go join that death-doomed row." + As paced he pertly past, a volley rang— + And as he fell in line, mock mercies once more flow + Of man's lead-lightning's sudden scathing pang, + But to his home-turned thoughts the balls but sang. + + "Here's half-a-franc I saved to buy my mother's bread!"— + The captain started—who mourns not a dear, + The dearest! mother!—"Where is she, wolf-cub?" he said + Still gruffly. "There, d'ye see? not far from here." + "Haste! make it hers! then back to swell <i>their</i> bier." + + He sprang aloof as springald from detested school, + Or ocean-rover from protected port. + "The little rascal has the laugh on us! no fool + To breast our bullets!"—but the scoff was short, + For soon! the rogue is racing from his court; + + And with still fearless front he faces them and calls: + "READY! but level low—<i>she's</i> kissed these eyes!" + From cooling hands of <i>men</i> each rifle falls, + And their gray officer, in grave surprise, + Life grants the lad whilst his last comrade dies. + + Brave youth! I know not well what urged thy act, + Whether thou'lt pass in palace, or die rackt; + But <i>then</i>, shone on the guns, a sublime soul.— + A Bayard-boy's, bound by his pure parole! + Honor redeemed though paid by parlous price, + Though lost be sunlit sports, wild boyhood's spice, + The Gates, the cheers of mates for bright device! + + Greeks would, whilom, have choicely clasped and circled thee, + Set thee the first to shield some new Thermopylae; + Thy deed had touched and tuned their true Tyrtaeus tongue, + And staged by Aeschylus, grouped thee grand gods among. + + And thy lost name (now known no more) been gilt and graved + On cloud-kissed column, by the sweet south ocean laved. + From us no crown! no honors from the civic sheaf— + Purely this poet's tear-bejewelled, aye-green leaf! + + H.L.W. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0158" id="link2H_4_0158"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS ORPHAN GRANDCHILDREN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("O Charles, je te sens près de moi.")</i> + + {July, 1871.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I feel thy presence, Charles. Sweet martyr! down + In earth, where men decay, + I search, and see from cracks which rend thy tomb, + Burst out pale morning's ray. + + Close linked are bier and cradle: here the dead, + To charm us, live again: + Kneeling, I mourn, when on my threshold sounds + Two little children's strain. + + George, Jeanne, sing on! George, Jeanne, unconscious play! + Your father's form recall, + Now darkened by his sombre shade, now gilt + By beams that wandering fall. + + Oh, knowledge! what thy use? did we not know + Death holds no more the dead; + But Heaven, where, hand in hand, angel and star + Smile at the grave we dread? + + A Heaven, which childhood represents on earth. + Orphans, may God be nigh! + That God, who can your bright steps turn aside + From darkness, where I sigh. + + All joy be yours, though sorrow bows me down! + To each his fitting wage: + Children, I've passed life's span, and men are plagued + By shadows at that stage. + + Hath any done—nay, only half performed— + The good he might for others? + Hath any conquered hatred, or had strength + To treat his foes like brothers? + + E'en he, who's tried his best, hath evil wrought: + Pain springs from happiness: + My heart has triumphed in defeat, my pulse + Ne'er quickened at success. + + I seemed the greater when I felt the blow: + The prick gives sense of gain; + Since to make others bleed my courage fails, + I'd rather bear the pain. + + To grow is sad, since evils grow no less; + Great height is mark for all: + The more I have of branches, more of clustering boughs, + The ghastlier shadows fall. + + Thence comes my sadness, though I grant your charms: + Ye are the outbursting + Of the soul in bloom, steeped in the draughts + Of nature's boundless spring. + + George is the sapling, set in mournful soil; + Jeanne's folding petals shroud + A mind which trembles at our uproar, yet + Half longs to speak aloud. + + Give, then, my children—lowly, blushing plants, + Whom sorrow waits to seize— + Free course to instincts, whispering 'mid the flowers, + Like hum of murmuring bees. + + Some day you'll find that chaos comes, alas! + That angry lightning's hurled, + When any cheer the People, Atlas huge, + Grim bearer of the world! + + You'll see that, since our fate is ruled by chance, + Each man, unknowing, great, + Should frame life so, that at some future hour + Fact and his dreamings meet. + + I, too, when death is past, one day shall grasp + That end I know not now; + And over you will bend me down, all filled + With dawn's mysterious glow. + + I'll learn what means this exile, what this shroud + Enveloping your prime; + And why the truth and sweetness of one man + Seem to all others crime. + + I'll hear—though midst these dismal boughs you sang— + How came it, that for me, + Who every pity feel for every woe, + So vast a gloom could be. + + I'll know why night relentless holds me, why + So great a pile of doom: + Why endless frost enfolds me, and methinks + My nightly bed's a tomb: + + Why all these battles, all these tears, regrets, + And sorrows were my share; + And why God's will of me a cypress made, + When roses bright ye were. + + MARWOOD TUCKER. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0159" id="link2H_4_0159"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE CANNON "VICTOR HUGO." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + {Bought with the proceeds of Readings of "Les Châtiments" during + the Siege of Paris.} + + {1872.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thou deadly crater, moulded by my muse, + Cast thou thy bronze into my bowed and wounded heart, + And let my soul its vengeance to thy bronze impart! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2Hart" id="link2Hart"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + L'ART D'ÊTRE GRANDPÊRE. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0160" id="link2H_4_0160"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Prenez garde à ce petit être.")</i> + + {LAUS PUER: POEM V.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Take heed of this small child of earth; + He is great: in him is God most high. + Children before their fleshly birth + Are lights in the blue sky. + + In our brief bitter world of wrong + They come; God gives us them awhile. + His speech is in their stammering tongue, + And His forgiveness in their smile. + + Their sweet light rests upon our eyes: + Alas! their right to joy is plain. + If they are hungry, Paradise + Weeps, and if cold, Heaven thrills with pain. + + The want that saps their sinless flower + Speaks judgment on Sin's ministers. + Man holds an angel in his power. + Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs. + + When God seeks out these tender things, + Whom in the shadow where we keep, + He sends them clothed about with wings, + And finds them ragged babes that weep! + + <i>Dublin University Magazine.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0161" id="link2H_4_0161"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EPIC OF THE LION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Un lion avait pris un enfant.")</i> + + {XIII.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A Lion in his jaws caught up a child— + Not harming it—and to the woodland, wild + With secret streams and lairs, bore off his prey— + The beast, as one might cull a bud in May. + It was a rosy boy, a king's own pride, + A ten-year lad, with bright eyes shining wide, + And save this son his majesty beside + Had but one girl, two years of age, and so + The monarch suffered, being old, much woe; + His heir the monster's prey, while the whole land + In dread both of the beast and king did stand; + Sore terrified were all. + + By came a knight + That road, who halted, asking, "What's the fright?" + They told him, and he spurred straight for the site! + The beast was seen to smile ere joined they fight, + The man and monster, in most desperate duel, + Like warring giants, angry, huge, and cruel. + Stout though the knight, the lion stronger was, + And tore that brave breast under its cuirass, + Scrunching that hero, till he sprawled, alas! + Beneath his shield, all blood and mud and mess: + Whereat the lion feasted: then it went + Back to its rocky couch and slept content. + Sudden, loud cries and clamors! striking out + Qualm to the heart of the quiet, horn and shout + Causing the solemn wood to reel with rout. + Terrific was this noise that rolled before; + It seemed a squadron; nay, 'twas something more— + A whole battalion, sent by that sad king + With force of arms his little prince to bring, + Together with the lion's bleeding hide. + + Which here was right or wrong? Who can decide? + Have beasts or men most claim to live? God wots! + He is the unit, we the cipher-dots. + Ranged in the order a great hunt should have, + They soon between the trunks espy the cave. + "Yes, that is it! the very mouth of the den!" + The trees all round it muttered, warning men; + Still they kept step and neared it. Look you now, + Company's pleasant, and there were a thou— + Good Lord! all in a moment, there's its face! + Frightful! they saw the lion! Not one pace + Further stirred any man; but bolt and dart + Made target of the beast. He, on his part, + As calm as Pelion in the rain or hail, + Bristled majestic from the teeth to tail, + And shook full fifty missiles from his hide, + But no heed took he; steadfastly he eyed, + And roared a roar, hoarse, vibrant, vengeful, dread, + A rolling, raging peal of wrath, which spread, + Making the half-awakened thunder cry, + "Who thunders there?" from its black bed of sky. + This ended all! Sheer horror cleared the coast; + As fogs are driven by the wind, that valorous host + Melted, dispersed to all the quarters four, + Clean panic-stricken by that monstrous roar. + Then quoth the lion, "Woods and mountains, see, + A thousand men, enslaved, fear one beast free!" + He followed towards the hill, climbed high above, + Lifted his voice, and, as the sowers sow + The seed down wind, thus did that lion throw + His message far enough the town to reach: + "King! your behavior really passes speech! + Thus far no harm I've wrought to him your son; + But now I give you notice—when night's done, + I will make entry at your city-gate, + Bringing the prince alive; and those who wait + To see him in my jaws—your lackey-crew— + Shall see me eat him in your palace, too!" + Next morning, this is what was viewed in town: + Dawn coming—people going—some adown + Praying, some crying; pallid cheeks, swift feet, + And a huge lion stalking through the street. + It seemed scarce short of rash impiety + To cross its path as the fierce beast went by. + So to the palace and its gilded dome + With stately steps unchallenged did he roam; + He enters it—within those walls he leapt! + No man! + + For certes, though he raged and wept, + His majesty, like all, close shelter kept, + Solicitous to live, holding his breath + Specially precious to the realm. Now death + Is not thus viewed by honest beasts of prey; + And when the lion found <i>him</i> fled away, + Ashamed to be so grand, man being so base, + He muttered to himself, "A wretched king! + 'Tis well; I'll eat his boy!" Then, wandering, + Lordly he traversed courts and corridors, + Paced beneath vaults of gold on shining floors, + Glanced at the throne deserted, stalked from hall + To hall—green, yellow, crimson—empty all! + Rich couches void, soft seats unoccupied! + And as he walked he looked from side to side + To find some pleasant nook for his repast, + Since appetite was come to munch at last + The princely morsel!—Ah! what sight astounds + That grisly lounger? + + In the palace grounds + An alcove on a garden gives, and there + A tiny thing—forgot in the general fear, + Lulled in the flower-sweet dreams of infancy, + Bathed with soft sunlight falling brokenly + Through leaf and lattice—was at that moment waking; + A little lovely maid, most dear and taking, + The prince's sister—all alone, undressed— + She sat up singing: children sing so best. + Charming this beauteous baby-maid; and so + The beast caught sight of her and stopped— + + And then + Entered—the floor creaked as he stalked straight in. + Above the playthings by the little bed + The lion put his shaggy, massive head, + Dreadful with savage might and lordly scorn, + More dreadful with that princely prey so borne; + Which she, quick spying, "Brother, brother!" cried, + "Oh, my own brother!" and, unterrified, + She gazed upon that monster of the wood, + Whose yellow balls not Typhon had withstood, + And—well! who knows what thoughts these small heads hold? + She rose up in her cot—full height, and bold, + And shook her pink fist angrily at him. + Whereon—close to the little bed's white rim, + All dainty silk and laces—this huge brute + Set down her brother gently at her foot, + Just as a mother might, and said to her, + "Don't be put out, now! There he is, dear, there!" + + EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0162" id="link2H_4_0162"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LES QUATRE VENTS DE L'ESPRIT. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0163" id="link2H_4_0163"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON HEARING THE PRINCESS ROYAL{1} SING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Dans ta haute demeure.")</i> + + {Bk. III. ix., 1881.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In thine abode so high + Where yet one scarce can breathe, + Dear child, most tenderly + A soft song thou dost wreathe. + + Thou singest, little girl— + Thy sire, the King is he: + Around thee glories whirl, + But all things sigh in thee. + + Thy thought may seek not wings + Of speech; dear love's forbidden; + Thy smiles, those heavenly things, + Being faintly born, are chidden. + + Thou feel'st, poor little Bride, + A hand unknown and chill + Clasp thine from out the wide + Deep shade so deathly still. + + Thy sad heart, wingless, weak, + Is sunk in this black shade + So deep, thy small hands seek, + Vainly, the pulse God made. + + Thou art yet but highness, thou + That shaft be majesty: + Though still on thy fair brow + Some faint dawn-flush may be, + + Child, unto armies dear, + Even now we mark heaven's light + Dimmed with the fume and fear + And glory of battle-might. + + Thy godfather is he, + Earth's Pope,—he hails thee, child! + Passing, armed men you see + Like unarmed women, mild. + + As saint all worship thee; + Thyself even hast the strong + Thrill of divinity + Mingled with thy small song. + + Each grand old warrior + Guards thee, submissive, proud; + Mute thunders at thy door + Sleep, that shall wake most loud. + + Around thee foams the wild + Bright sea, the lot of kings. + Happier wert thou, my child, + I' the woods a bird that sings! + + NELSON R. TYERMAN. + + {Footnote 1: Marie, daughter of King Louis Philippe, afterwards Princess + of Würtemburg.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0164" id="link2H_4_0164"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY HAPPIEST DREAM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("J'aime à me figure.")</i> + + {Bk. III. vii. and viii.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I love to look, as evening fails, + On vestals streaming in their veils, + Within the fane past altar rails, + Green palms in hand. + My darkest moods will always clear + When I can fancy children near, + With rosy lips a-laughing—dear, + Light-dancing band! + + Enchanting vision, too, displayed, + That of a sweet and radiant maid, + Who knows not why she is afraid,— + Love's yet unseen! + Another—rarest 'mong the rare— + To see the gaze of chosen fair + Return prolonged and wistful stare + Of eager een. + + But—dream o'er all to stir my soul, + And shine the brightest on the roll, + Is when a land of tyrant's toll + By sword is rid. + I say not dagger—with the sword + When Right enchampions the horde, + All in broad day—so that the bard + May sing the victor with the starred + Bayard and Cid! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0165" id="link2H_4_0165"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN OLD-TIME LAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Jamais elle ne raille.")</i> + + {Bk. III. xiii.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where your brood seven lie, + Float in calm heavenly, + Life passing evenly, + Waterfowl, waterfowl! often I dream + For a rest + Like your nest, + Skirting the stream. + + Shine the sun tearfully + Ere the clouds clear fully, + Still you skim cheerfully, + Swallow, oh! swallow swift! often I sigh + For a home + Where you roam + Nearing the sky! + + Guileless of pondering; + Swallow-eyes wandering; + Seeking no fonder ring + Than the rose-garland Love gives thee apart! + Grant me soon— + Blessed boon! + Home in thy heart! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0166" id="link2H_4_0166"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JERSEY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Jersey dort dans les flots.")</i> + + {Bk. III. xiv., Oct. 8, 1854.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Jersey! jewel jubilant and green, + 'Midst surge that splits steel ships, but sings to thee! + Thou fav'rest Frenchmen, though from England seen, + Oft tearful to that mistress "North Countree"; + Returned the third time safely here to be, + I bless my bold Gibraltar of the Free. + + Yon lighthouse stands forth like a fervent friend, + One who our tempest buffets back with zest, + And with twin-steeple, eke our helmsman's end, + Forms arms that beckon us upon thy breast; + Rose-posied pillow, crystallized with spray, + Where pools pellucid mirror sunny ray. + + A frigate fretting yonder smoothest sky, + Like pauseless petrel poising o'er a wreck, + Strikes bright athwart the dearly dazzled eye, + Until it lessens to scarce certain speck, + 'Neath Venus, sparkling on the agate-sprinkled beach, + For fisher's sailing-signal, just and true, + Until Aurora frights her from the view. + + In summer, steamer-smoke spreads as thy veil, + And mists in winter sudden screen thy sight, + When at thy feet the galley-breakers wail + And toss their tops high o'er the lofty flight + Of horrid storm-worn steps with shark-like bite, + That only ope to swallow up in spite. + + L'ENVOY. + + But penitent in calm, thou givest a balm, + To many a man who's felt thy rage, + And many a sea-bird—thanks be heard!— + Thou shieldest—sea-bird—exiled bard and sage. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0167" id="link2H_4_0167"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THEN, MOST, I SMILE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Il est un peu tard.")</i> + + {Bk. III. xxx., Oct. 30, 1854.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Late it is to look so proud, + Daisy queen! come is the gloom + Of the winter-burdened cloud!— + "But, in winter, most I bloom!" + + Star of even! sunk the sun! + Lost for e'er the ruddy line; + And the earth is veiled in dun,— + "Nay, in darkness, best I shine!" + + O, my soul! art 'bove alarm, + Quaffing thus the cup of gall— + Canst thou face the grave with calm?— + "Yes, the Christians smile at all." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0168" id="link2H_4_0168"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EXILE'S DESIRE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Si je pouvais voir, O patrie!")</i> + + {Bk. III. xxxvii.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Would I could see you, native land, + Where lilacs and the almond stand + Behind fields flowering to the strand— + But no! + + Can I—oh, father, mother, crave + Another final blessing save + To rest my head upon your grave?— + But no! + + In the one pit where ye repose, + Would I could tell of France's woes, + My brethren, who fell facing foes— + But no! + + Would I had—oh, my dove of light, + After whose flight came ceaseless night, + One plume to clasp so purely white.— + But no! + + Far from ye all—oh, dead, bewailed! + The fog-bell deafens me empaled + Upon this rock—I feel enjailed— + Though free. + + Like one who watches at the gate + Lest some shall 'scape the doomèd strait. + I watch! the tyrant, howe'er late, + Must fall! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0169" id="link2H_4_0169"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE REFUGEE'S HAVEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Vous voilà dans la froide Angleterre.")</i> + + {Bk. III. xlvii., Jersey, Sept. 19, 1854.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You may doubt I find comfort in England + But, there, 'tis a refuge from dangers! + Where a Cromwell dictated to Milton, + Republicans ne'er can be strangers! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0170" id="link2H_4_0170"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIOUS PIECES. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0171" id="link2H_4_0171"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE NAPOLEON COLUMN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + {Oct. 9, 1830.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When with gigantic hand he placed, + For throne, on vassal Europe based, + That column's lofty height— + Pillar, in whose dread majesty, + In double immortality, + Glory and bronze unite! + Aye, when he built it that, some day, + Discord or war their course might stay, + Or here might break their car; + And in our streets to put to shame + Pigmies that bear the hero's name + Of Greek and Roman war. + It was a glorious sight; the world + His hosts had trod, with flags unfurled, + In veteran array; + Kings fled before him, forced to yield, + He, conqueror on each battlefield, + Their cannon bore away. + Then, with his victors back he came; + All France with booty teemed, her name + Was writ on sculptured stone; + And Paris cried with joy, as when + The parent bird comes home again + To th' eaglets left alone. + Into the furnace flame, so fast, + Were heaps of war-won metal cast, + The future monument! + His thought had formed the giant mould, + And piles of brass in the fire he rolled, + From hostile cannon rent. + When to the battlefield he came, + He grasped the guns spite tongues of flame, + And bore the spoil away. + This bronze to France's Rome he brought, + And to the founder said, "Is aught + Wanting for our array?" + And when, beneath a radiant sun, + That man, his noble purpose done, + With calm and tranquil mien, + Disclosed to view this glorious fane, + And did with peaceful hand contain + The warlike eagle's sheen. + Round <i>thee</i>, when hundred thousands placed, + As some great Roman's triumph graced, + The little Romans all; + We boys hung on the procession's flanks, + Seeking some father in thy ranks, + And loud thy praise did call. + Who that surveyed thee, when that day + Thou deemed that future glory ray + Would here be ever bright; + Feared that, ere long, all France thy grave + From pettifoggers vain would crave + Beneath that column's height? + + <i>Author of "Critical Essays."</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0172" id="link2H_4_0172"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHARITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Je suis la Charité.")</i> + + {February, 1837.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Lo! I am Charity," she cries, + "Who waketh up before the day; + While yet asleep all nature lies, + God bids me rise and go my way." + + How fair her glorious features shine, + Whereon the hand of God hath set + An angel's attributes divine, + With all a woman's sweetness met. + + Above the old man's couch of woe + She bows her forehead, pure and even. + There's nothing fairer here below, + There's nothing grander up in heaven, + + Than when caressingly she stands + (The cold hearts wakening 'gain their beat), + And holds within her holy hands + The little children's naked feet. + + To every den of want and toil + She goes, and leaves the poorest fed; + Leaves wine and bread, and genial oil, + And hopes that blossom in her tread, + + And fire, too, beautiful bright fire, + That mocks the glowing dawn begun, + Where, having set the blind old sire, + He dreams he's sitting in the sun. + + Then, over all the earth she runs, + And seeks, in the cold mists of life, + Those poor forsaken little ones + Who droop and weary in the strife. + + Ah, most her heart is stirred for them, + Whose foreheads, wrapped in mists obscure, + Still wear a triple diadem— + The young, the innocent, the poor. + + And they are better far than we, + And she bestows a worthier meed; + For, with the loaf of charity, + She gives the kiss that children need. + + She gives, and while they wondering eat + The tear-steeped bread by love supplied, + She stretches round them in the street + Her arm that passers push aside. + + If, with raised head and step alert, + She sees the rich man stalking by, + She touches his embroidered skirt, + And gently shows them where they lie. + + She begs for them of careless crowd, + Of earnest brows and narrow hearts, + That when it hears her cry aloud, + Turns like the ebb-tide and departs. + + O miserable he who sings + Some strain impure, whose numbers fall + Along the cruel wind that brings + Death to some child beneath his wall. + + O strange and sad and fatal thing, + When, in the rich man's gorgeous hall, + The huge fire on the hearth doth fling + A light on some great festival, + + To see the drunkard smile in state, + In purple wrapt, with myrtle crowned, + While Jesus lieth at the gate + With only rags to wrap him round. + + <i>Dublin University Magazine</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0173" id="link2H_4_0173"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWEET SISTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Vous qui ne savez pas combien l'enfance est belle.")</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sweet sister, if you knew, like me, + The charms of guileless infancy, + No more you'd envy riper years, + Or smiles, more bitter than your tears. + + But childhood passes in an hour, + As perfume from a faded flower; + The joyous voice of early glee + Flies, like the Halcyon, o'er the sea. + + Enjoy your morn of early Spring; + Soon time maturer thoughts must bring; + Those hours, like flowers that interclimb, + Should not be withered ere their time. + + Too soon you'll weep, as we do now, + O'er faithless friend, or broken vow, + And hopeless sorrows, which our pride + In pleasure's whirl would vainly hide. + + Laugh on! unconscious of thy doom, + All innocence and opening bloom; + Laugh on! while yet thine azure eye + Mirrors the peace that reigns on high. + + MRS. B. SOMERS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0174" id="link2H_4_0174"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PITY OF THE ANGELS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Un Ange vit un jour.")</i> + + {LA PITIÉ SUPREME VIII., 1881.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When an angel of kindness + Saw, doomed to the dark, + Men framed in his likeness, + He sought for a spark— + Stray gem of God's glory + That shines so serene— + And, falling like lark, + To brighten our story, + Pure Pity was seen. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0175" id="link2H_4_0175"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SOWER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sitting in a porchway cool, + Fades the ruddy sunlight fast, + Twilight hastens on to rule— + Working hours are wellnigh past + + Shadows shoot across the lands; + But one sower lingers still, + Old, in rags, he patient stands,— + Looking on, I feel a thrill. + + Black and high his silhouette + Dominates the furrows deep! + Now to sow the task is set, + Soon shall come a time to reap. + + Marches he along the plain, + To and fro, and scatters wide + From his hands the precious grain; + Moody, I, to see him stride. + + Darkness deepens. Gone the light. + Now his gestures to mine eyes + Are august; and strange—his height + Seems to touch the starry skies. + + TORU DUTT. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0176" id="link2H_4_0176"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OH, WHY NOT BE HAPPY?{1} + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("A quoi bon entendre les oiseaux?")</i> + + {RUY BLAS, Act II.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, why not be happy this bright summer day, + 'Mid perfume of roses and newly-mown hay? + Great Nature is smiling—the birds in the air + Sing love-lays together, and all is most fair. + Then why not be happy + This bright summer day, + 'Mid perfume of roses + And newly-mown hay? + + The streamlets they wander through meadows so fleet, + Their music enticing fond lovers to meet; + The violets are blooming and nestling their heads + In richest profusion on moss-coated beds. + Then why not be happy + This bright summer day, + When Nature is fairest + And all is so gay? + + LEOPOLD WRAY. + + {Footnote 1: Music composed by Elizabeth Philip.} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0177" id="link2H_4_0177"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FREEDOM AND THE WORLD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + {Inscription under a Statue of the Virgin and Child, at Guernsey.—The + poet sees in the emblem a modern Atlas, i.e., Freedom supporting the + World.} + + <i>("Le peuple est petit.")</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Weak is the People—but will grow beyond all other— + Within thy holy arms, thou fruitful victor-mother! + O Liberty, whose conquering flag is never furled— + Thou bearest Him in whom is centred all the World. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0178" id="link2H_4_0178"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SERENADE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Quand tu chantes.")</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When the voice of thy lute at the eve + Charmeth the ear, + In the hour of enchantment believe + What I murmur near. + That the tune can the Age of Gold + With its magic restore. + Play on, play on, my fair one, + Play on for evermore. + + When thy laugh like the song of the dawn + Riseth so gay + That the shadows of Night are withdrawn + And melt away, + I remember my years of care + And misgiving no more. + Laugh on, laugh on, my fair one, + Laugh on for evermore. + + When thy sleep like the moonlight above + Lulling the sea, + Doth enwind thee in visions of love, + Perchance, of me! + I can watch so in dream that enthralled me, + Never before! + Sleep on, sleep on, my fair one! + Sleep on for evermore. + + HENRY F. CHORLEY. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0179" id="link2H_4_0179"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN AUTUMNAL SIMILE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Les feuilles qui gisaient.")</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The leaves that in the lonely walks were spread, + Starting from off the ground beneath the tread, + Coursed o'er the garden-plain; + Thus, sometimes, 'mid the soul's deep sorrowings, + Our soul a moment mounts on wounded wings, + Then, swiftly, falls again. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0180" id="link2H_4_0180"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO CRUEL OCEAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where are the hapless shipmen?—disappeared, + Gone down, where witness none, save Night, hath been, + Ye deep, deep waves, of kneeling mothers feared, + What dismal tales know ye of things unseen? + Tales that ye tell your whispering selves between + The while in clouds to the flood-tide ye pour; + And this it is that gives you, as I ween, + Those mournful voices, mournful evermore, + When ye come in at eve to us who dwell on shore. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0181" id="link2H_4_0181"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ESMERALDA IN PRISON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Phoebus, n'est-il sur la terre?")</i> + + {OPERA OF "ESMERALDA," ACT IV., 1836.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Phoebus, is there not this side the grave, + Power to save + Those who're loving? Magic balm + That will restore to me my former calm? + Is there nothing tearful eye + Can e'er dry, or hush the sigh? + I pray Heaven day and night, + As I lay me down in fright, + To retake my life, or give + All again for which I'd live! + Phoebus, hasten from the shining sphere + To me here! + Hither hasten, bring me Death; then Love + May let our spirits rise, ever-linked, above! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0182" id="link2H_4_0182"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVER'S SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Mon âme à ton coeur s'est donnée.")</i> + + {ANGELO, Act II., May, 1835.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My soul unto thy heart is given, + In mystic fold do they entwine, + So bound in one that, were they riven, + Apart my soul would life resign. + Thou art my song and I the lyre; + Thou art the breeze and I the brier; + The altar I, and thou the fire; + Mine the deep love, the beauty thine! + As fleets away the rapid hour + While weeping—may + My sorrowing lay + Touch thee, sweet flower. + + ERNEST OSWALD COE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A FLEETING GLIMPSE OF A VILLAGE. + + <i>("Tout vit! et se pose avec grâce.")</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How graceful the picture! the life, the repose! + The sunbeam that plays on the porchstone wide; + And the shadow that fleets o'er the stream that flows, + And the soft blue sky with the hill's green side. + + <i>Fraser's Magazine</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0183" id="link2H_4_0183"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LORD ROCHESTER'S SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Un soldat au dur visage.")</i> + + {CROMWELL, ACT I.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Hold, little blue-eyed page!" + So cried the watchers surly, + Stern to his pretty rage + And golden hair so curly— + "Methinks your satin cloak + Masks something bulky under; + I take this as no joke— + Oh, thief with stolen plunder!" + + "I am of high repute, + And famed among the truthful: + This silver-handled lute + Is meet for one still youthful + Who goes to keep a tryst + With her who is his dearest. + I charge you to desist; + My cause is of the clearest." + + But guardsmen are so sharp, + Their eyes are as the lynx's: + "That's neither lute nor harp— + Your mark is not the minxes. + Your loving we dispute— + That string of steel so cruel + For music does not suit— + You go to fight a duel!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0184" id="link2H_4_0184"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BEGGAR'S QUATRAIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Aveugle comme Homère.")</i> + + {Improvised at the Café de Paris.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Blind, as was Homer; as Belisarius, blind, + But one weak child to guide his vision dim. + The hand which dealt him bread, in pity kind— + He'll never see; God sees it, though, for him. + + H.L.C., "<i>London Society.</i>" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0185" id="link2H_4_0185"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE QUIET RURAL CHURCH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was a humble church, with arches low, + The church we entered there, + Where many a weary soul since long ago + Had past with plaint or prayer. + + Mournful and still it was at day's decline, + The day we entered there; + As in a loveless heart, at the lone shrine, + The fires extinguished were. + + Scarcely was heard to float some gentlest sound, + Scarcely some low breathed word, + As in a forest fallen asleep, is found + Just one belated bird. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A STORM SIMILE. + + <i>("Oh, regardez le ciel!")</i> + + {June, 1828.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See, where on high the moving masses, piled + By the wind, break in groups grotesque and wild, + Present strange shapes to view; + Oft flares a pallid flash from out their shrouds, + As though some air-born giant 'mid the clouds + Sudden his falchion drew. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0186" id="link2H_4_0186"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DRAMATIC PIECES. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0187" id="link2H_4_0187"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FATHER'S CURSE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Vous, sire, écoutez-moi.")</i> + + {LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act I.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + M. ST. VALLIER (<i>an aged nobleman, from whom King Francis I. + decoyed his daughter, the famous beauty, Diana of + Poitiers</i>). + + A king should listen when his subjects speak: + 'Tis true your mandate led me to the block, + Where pardon came upon me, like a dream; + I blessed you then, unconscious as I was + That a king's mercy, sharper far than death, + To save a father doomed his child to shame; + Yes, without pity for the noble race + Of Poitiers, spotless for a thousand years, + You, Francis of Valois, without one spark + Of love or pity, honor or remorse, + Did on that night (thy couch her virtue's tomb), + With cold embraces, foully bring to scorn + My helpless daughter, Dian of Poitiers. + To save her father's life a knight she sought, + Like Bayard, fearless and without reproach. + She found a heartless king, who sold the boon, + Making cold bargain for his child's dishonor. + Oh! monstrous traffic! foully hast thou done! + My blood was thine, and justly, tho' it springs + Amongst the best and noblest names of France; + But to pretend to spare these poor gray locks, + And yet to trample on a weeping woman, + Was basely done; the father was thine own, + But not the daughter!—thou hast overpassed + The right of monarchs!—yet 'tis mercy deemed. + And I perchance am called ungrateful still. + Oh, hadst thou come within my dungeon walls, + I would have sued upon my knees for death, + But mercy for my child, my name, my race, + Which, once polluted, is my race no more. + Rather than insult, death to them and me. + I come not now to ask her back from thee; + Nay, let her love thee with insensate love; + I take back naught that bears the brand of shame. + Keep her! Yet, still, amidst thy festivals, + Until some father's, brother's, husband's hand + ('Twill come to pass!) shall rid us of thy yoke, + My pallid face shall ever haunt thee there, + To tell thee, Francis, it was foully done!... + + TRIBOULET <i>(the Court Jester), sneering.</i> The poor man + raves. + + ST. VILLIER. Accursed be ye both! + Oh Sire! 'tis wrong upon the dying lion + To loose thy dog! <i>(Turns to Triboulet)</i> + And thou, whoe'er thou art, + That with a fiendish sneer and viper's tongue + Makest my tears a pastime and a sport, + My curse upon thee!—Sire, thy brow doth bear + The gems of France!—on mine, old age doth sit; + Thine decked with jewels, mine with these gray hairs; + We both are Kings, yet bear a different crown; + And should some impious hand upon thy head + Heap wrongs and insult, with thine own strong arm + Thou canst avenge them! <i>God avenges mine!</i> + + FREDK. L. SLOUS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0188" id="link2H_4_0188"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PATERNAL LOVE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Ma fille! ô seul bonheur.")</i> + + {LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act II} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My child! oh, only blessing Heaven allows me! + Others have parents, brothers, kinsmen, friends, + A wife, a husband, vassals, followers, + Ancestors, and allies, or many children. + I have but thee, thee only. Some are rich; + Thou art my treasure, thou art all my riches. + And some believe in angels; I believe + In nothing but thy soul. Others have youth, + And woman's love, and pride, and grace, and health; + Others are beautiful; thou art my beauty, + Thou art my home, my country and my kin, + My wife, my mother, sister, friend—my child! + My bliss, my wealth, my worship, and my law, + My Universe! Oh, by all other things + My soul is tortured. If I should ever lose thee— + Horrible thought! I cannot utter it. + Smile, for thy smile is like thy mother's smiling. + She, too, was fair; you have a trick like her, + Of passing oft your hand athwart your brow + As though to clear it. Innocence still loves + A brow unclouded and an azure eye. + To me thou seem'st clothed in a holy halo, + My soul beholds thy soul through thy fair body; + E'en when my eyes are shut, I see thee still; + Thou art my daylight, and sometimes I wish + That Heaven had made me blind that thou might'st be + The sun that lighted up the world for me. + + FANNY KEMBLE-BUTLER. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0189" id="link2H_4_0189"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEGENERATE GALLANTS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Mes jeunes cavaliers.")</i> + + {HERNANI, Act I., March, 1830.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What business brings you here, young cavaliers? + Men like the Cid, the knights of bygone years, + Rode out the battle of the weak to wage, + Protecting beauty and revering age. + Their armor sat on them, strong men as true, + Much lighter than your velvet rests on you. + Not in a lady's room by stealth they knelt; + In church, by day, they spoke the love they felt. + They kept their houses' honor bright from rust, + They told no secret, and betrayed no trust; + And if a wife they wanted, bold and gay, + With lance, or axe, or falchion, and by day, + Bravely they won and wore her. As for those + Who slip through streets when honest men repose, + With eyes turned to the ground, and in night's shade + The rights of trusting husbands to invade; + I say the Cid would force such knaves as these + To beg the city's pardon on their knees; + And with the flat of his all-conquering blade + Their rank usurped and 'scutcheon would degrade. + Thus would the men of former times, I say, + Treat the degenerate minions of to-day. + + LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE.) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0190" id="link2H_4_0190"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OLD AND THE YOUNG BRIDEGROOM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("L'homme auquel on vous destina.")</i> + + {HERNANI, Act I.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Listen. The man for whom your youth is destined, + Your uncle, Ruy de Silva, is the Duke + Of Pastrana, Count of Castile and Aragon. + For lack of youth, he brings you, dearest girl, + Treasures of gold, jewels, and precious gems, + With which your brow might outshine royalty; + And for rank, pride, splendor, and opulence, + Might many a queen be envious of his duchess! + Here is one picture. I am poor; my youth + I passed i' the woods, a barefoot fugitive. + My shield, perchance, may bear some noble blazons + Spotted with blood, defaced though not dishonored. + Perchance I, too, have rights, now veiled in darkness,— + Rights, which the heavy drapery of the scaffold + Now hides beneath its black and ample folds; + Rights which, if my intent deceive me not, + My sword shall one day rescue. To be brief:— + I have received from churlish Fortune nothing + But air, light, water,—Nature's general boon. + Choose, then, between us two, for you must choose;— + Say, will you wed the duke, or follow me? + + DONNA SOL. I'll follow you. + + HERN. What, 'mongst my rude companions, + Whose names are registered in the hangman's book? + Whose hearts are ever eager as their swords, + Edged by a personal impulse of revenge? + Will you become the queen, dear, of my band? + Will you become a hunted outlaw's bride? + When all Spain else pursued and banished me,— + In her proud forests and air-piercing mountains, + And rocks the lordly eagle only knew, + Old Catalonia took me to her bosom. + Among her mountaineers, free, poor, and brave, + I ripened into manhood, and, to-morrow, + One blast upon my horn, among her hills, + Would draw three thousand of her sons around me. + You shudder,—think upon it. Will you tread + The shores, woods, mountains, with me, among men + Like the dark spirits of your haunted dreams,— + Suspect all eyes, all voices, every footstep,— + Sleep on the grass, drink of the torrent, hear + By night the sharp hiss of the musket-ball + Whistling too near your ear,—a fugitive + Proscribed, and doomed mayhap to follow me + In the path leading to my father's scaffold? + + DONNA SOL. I'll follow you. + + HERN. This duke is rich, great, prosperous, + No blot attaches to his ancient name. + He is all-powerful. He offers you + His treasures, titles, honors, with his hand. + + DONNA SOL. We will depart to-morrow. Do not blame + What may appear a most unwomanly boldness. + + CHARLES SHERRY. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0191" id="link2H_4_0191"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DONNA SOL <i>to</i> HERNANI. + + <i>("Nous partirons demain.")</i> + + {HERNANI, ACT I.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To mount the hills or scaffold, we go to-morrow: + Hernani, blame me not for this my boldness. + Art thou mine evil genius or mine angel? + I know not, but I am thy slave. Now hear me: + Go where thou wilt, I follow thee. Remain, + And I remain. Why do I thus? I know not. + I feel that I must see thee—see thee still— + See thee for ever. When thy footstep dies, + It is as if my heart no more would beat; + When thou art gone, I am absent from myself; + But when the footstep which I love and long for + Strikes on mine ear again—then I remember + I live, and feel my soul return to me. + + G. MOIR. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0192" id="link2H_4_0192"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOVER'S SACRIFICE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Fuyons ensemble.")</i> + + {HERNANI, Act II.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DONNA SOL. Together let us fly! + + HERNANI. Together? No! the hour is past for flight. + Dearest, when first thy beauty smote my sight, + I offered, for the love that bade me live, + Wretch that I was, what misery had to give: + My wood, my stream, my mountain. Bolder grown, + By thy compassion to an outlaw shown, + The outlaw's meal beneath the forest shade, + The outlaw's couch far in the greenwood glade, + I offered. Though to both that couch be free, + I keep the scaffold block reserved for me. + + DONNA SOL. And yet you promised? + + HERNANI <i>(falls on his knee.)</i> Angel! in this hour, + Pursued by vengeance and oppressed by power— + Even in this hour when death prepares to close + In shame and pain a destiny of woes— + Yes, I, who from the world proscribed and cast, + Have nursed one dark remembrance of the past, + E'en from my birth in sorrow's garment clad, + Have cause to smile and reason to be glad; + For you have loved the outlaw and have shed + Your whispered blessings on his forfeit head. + + DONNA SOL. Let me go with you. + + HERNANI. No! I will not rend + From its fair stem the flower as I descend. + Go—I have smelt its perfume. Go—resume + All that this grasp has brushed away of bloom. + Wed the old man,—believe that ne'er we met; + I seek my shade—be happy, and forget! + + LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE). +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0193" id="link2H_4_0193"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OLD MAN'S LOVE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Dérision! que cet amour boiteux.")</i> + + {HERNANI, Act III.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O mockery! that this halting love + That fills the heart so full of flame and transport, + Forgets the body while it fires the soul! + If but a youthful shepherd cross my path, + He singing on the way—I sadly musing, + He in his fields, I in my darksome alleys— + Then my heart murmurs: "O, ye mouldering towers! + Thou olden ducal dungeon! O how gladly + Would I exchange ye, and my fields and forests, + Mine ancient name, mine ancient rank, my ruins— + My ancestors, with whom I soon shall lie, + For <i>his</i> thatched cottage and his youthful brow!" + His hair is black—his eyes shine forth like <i>thine</i>. + Him thou might'st look upon, and say, fair youth, + Then turn to me, and think that I am old. + And yet the light and giddy souls of cavaliers + Harbor no love so fervent as their words bespeak. + Let some poor maiden love them and believe them, + Then die for them—they smile. Aye! these young birds, + With gay and glittering wing and amorous song, + Can shed their love as lightly as their plumage. + The old, whose voice and colors age has dimmed, + Flatter no more, and, though less fair, are faithful. + When <i>we</i> love, we love true. Are our steps frail? + Our eyes dried up and withered? Are our brows + Wrinkled? There are no wrinkles in the heart. + Ah! when the graybeard loves, he should be spared; + The heart is young—<i>that</i> bleeds unto the last. + I love thee as a spouse,—and in a thousand + Other fashions,—as sire,—as we love + The morn, the flowers, the overhanging heavens. + Ah me! when day by day I gaze upon thee, + Thy graceful step, thy purely-polished brow, + Thine eyes' calm fire,—I feel my heart leap up, + And an eternal sunshine bathe my soul. + And think, too! Even the world admires, + When age, expiring, for a moment totters + Upon the marble margin of a tomb, + To see a wife—a pure and dove-like angel— + Watch over him, soothe him, and endure awhile + The useless old man, only fit to die; + A sacred task, and worthy of all honor, + This latest effort of a faithful heart; + Which, in his parting hour, consoles the dying, + And, without loving, wears the look of love. + Ah! thou wilt be to me this sheltering angel, + To cheer the old man's heart—to share with him + The burden of his evil years;—a daughter + In thy respect, a sister in thy pity. + + DONNA SOL. My fate may be more to precede than follow. + My lord, it is no reason for long life + That we are young! Alas! I have seen too oft + The old clamped firm to life, the young torn thence; + And the lids close as sudden o'er their eyes + As gravestones sealing up the sepulchre. + + G. MOIR. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0194" id="link2H_4_0194"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ROLL OF THE DE SILVA RACE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Celui-ci, des Silvas, c'est l'aîné.")</i> + + {HERNANI, Act III.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In that reverend face + Behold the father of De Silva's race, + Silvius; in Rome he filled the consul's place + Three times (your patience for such honored names). + This second was Grand Master of St. James + And Calatrava; his strong limbs sustained + Armor which ours would sink beneath. He gained + Thirty pitched battles, and took, as legends tell, + Three hundred standards from the Infidel; + And from the Moorish King Motril, in war, + Won Antiquera, Suez, and Nijar; + And then died poor. Next to him Juan stands, + His son; his plighted hand was worth the hands + Of kings. Next Gaspar, of Mendoza's line— + Few noble stems but chose to join with mine: + Sandoval sometimes fears, and sometimes woos + Our smiles; Manriquez envies; Lara sues; + And Alancastre hates. Our rank we know: + Kings are but just above us, dukes below. + Vasquez, who kept for sixty years his vow— + Greater than he I pass. This reverend brow, + This was my sire's—the greatest, though the last: + The Moors his friend had taken and made fast— + Alvar Giron. What did my father then? + He cut in stone an image of Alvar, + Cunningly carved, and dragged it to the war; + He vowed a vow to yield no inch of ground + Until that image of itself turned round; + He reached Alvar—he saved him—and his line + Was old De Silva's, and his name was mine— + Ruy Gomez. + + King CARLOS. Drag me from his lurking-place + The traitor! + + {DON RUY <i>leads the</i> KING <i>to the portrait behind + which</i> HERNANI <i>is hiding</i>.} + + Sire, your highness does me grace. + This, the last portrait, bears my form and name, + And you would write this motto on the frame! + "This last, sprung from the noblest and the best, + Betrayed his plighted troth, and sold his guest!" + + LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0195" id="link2H_4_0195"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOVERS' COLLOQUY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Mon duc, rien qu'un moment.")</i> + + {HERNANI, Act V.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One little moment to indulge the sight + With the rich beauty of the summer's night. + The harp is hushed, and, see, the torch is dim,— + Night and ourselves together. To the brim + The cup of our felicity is filled. + Each sound is mute, each harsh sensation stilled. + Dost thou not think that, e'en while nature sleeps, + Some power its amorous vigils o'er us keeps? + No cloud in heaven; while all around repose, + Come taste with me the fragrance of the rose, + Which loads the night-air with its musky breath, + While everything is still as nature's death. + E'en as you spoke—and gentle words were those + Spoken by you,—the silver moon uprose; + How that mysterious union of her ray, + With your impassioned accents, made its way + Straight to my heart! I could have wished to die + In that pale moonlight, and while thou wert by. + + HERNANI. Thy words are music, and thy strain of love + Is borrowed from the choir of heaven above. + + DONNA SOL. Night is too silent, darkness too profound + Oh, for a star to shine, a voice to sound— + To raise some sudden note of music now + Suited to night. + + HERN. Capricious girl! your vow + Was poured for silence, and to be released + From the thronged tumult of the marriage feast. + + DONNA SOL. Yes; but one bird to carol in the field,— + A nightingale, in mossy shade concealed,— + A distant flute,—for music's stream can roll + To soothe the heart, and harmonize the soul,— + O! 'twould be bliss to listen. + + {<i>Distant sound of a horn, the signal that</i> HERNANI + <i>must go to</i> DON RUY, <i>who, having saved his + life, had him bound in a vow to yield it up.</i>} + + LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE). +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0196" id="link2H_4_0196"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CROMWELL AND THE CROWN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Ah! je le tiens enfin.")</i> + + {CROMWELL, Act II., October, 1827.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THURLOW <i>communicates the intention of Parliament to + offer</i> CROMWELL <i>the crown</i>. + + CROMWELL. And is it mine? And have my feet at length + Attained the summit of the rock i' the sand? + + THURLOW. And yet, my lord, you have long reigned. + + CROM. Nay, nay! + Power I have 'joyed, in sooth, but not the name. + Thou smilest, Thurlow. Ah, thou little know'st + What hole it is Ambition digs i' th' heart + What end, most seeming empty, is the mark + For which we fret and toil and dare! How hard + With an unrounded fortune to sit down! + Then, what a lustre from most ancient times + Heaven has flung o'er the sacred head of kings! + King—Majesty—what names of power! No king, + And yet the world's high arbiter! The thing + Without the word! no handle to the blade! + Away—the empire and the name are one! + Alack! thou little dream'st how grievous 'tis, + Emerging from the crowd, and at the top + Arrived, to feel that there is <i>something</i> still + Above our heads; something, nothing! no matter— + That word is everything. + + LEITCH RITCHIE. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0197" id="link2H_4_0197"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MILTON'S APPEAL TO CROMWELL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Non! je n'y puis tenir.")</i> + + {CROMWELL, Act III. sc. iv.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Stay! I no longer can contain myself, + But cry you: Look on John, who bares his mind + To Oliver—to Cromwell, Milton speaks! + Despite a kindling eye and marvel deep + A voice is lifted up without your leave; + For I was never placed at council board + To speak <i>my</i> promptings. When awed strangers come + Who've seen Fox-Mazarin wince at the stings + In my epistles—and bring admiring votes + Of learned colleges, they strain to see + My figure in the glare—the usher utters, + "Behold and hearken! that's my Lord Protector's + Cousin—that, his son-in-law—that next"—who cares! + Some perfumed puppet! "Milton?" "He in black— + Yon silent scribe who trims their eloquence!" + Still 'chronicling small-beer,'—such is my duty! + Yea, one whose thunder roared through martyr bones + Till Pope and Louis Grand quaked on their thrones, + And echoed "Vengeance for the Vaudois," where + The Sultan slumbers sick with scent of roses. + He is but the mute in this seraglio— + "Pure" Cromwell's Council! + But to be dumb and blind is overmuch! + Impatient Issachar kicks at the load! + Yet diadems are burdens painfuller, + And I would spare thee that sore imposition. + Dear brother Noll, I plead against thyself! + Thou aim'st to be a king; and, in thine heart, + What fool has said: "There is no king but thou?" + For thee the multitude waged war and won— + The end thou art of wrestlings and of prayer, + Of sleepless watch, long marches, hunger, tears + And blood prolifically spilled, homes lordless, + And homeless lords! The mass must always suffer + That one should reign! the collar's but newly clamp'd, + And nothing but the name thereon is changed— + Master? still masters! mark you not the red + Of shame unutterable in my sightless white? + Still hear me, Cromwell, speaking for your sake! + These fifteen years, we, to you whole-devoted, + Have sought for Liberty—to give it thee? + To make our interests your huckster gains? + The king a lion slain that you may flay, + And wear the robe—well, worthily—I say't, + For I will not abase my brother! + No! I would keep him in the realm serene, + My own ideal of heroes! loved o'er Israel, + And higher placed by me than all the others! + And such, for tinkling titles, hollow haloes + Like that around yon painted brow—thou! thou! + Apostle, hero, saint-dishonor thyself! + And snip and trim the flag of Naseby-field + As scarf on which the maid-of-honor's dog + Will yelp, some summer afternoon! That sword + Shrink into a sceptre! brilliant bauble! Thou, + Thrown on a lonely rock in storm of state, + Brain-turned by safety's miracle, thou risest + Upon the tott'ring stone whilst ocean ebbs, + And, reeking of no storms to come to-morrow, + Or to-morrow—deem that a certain pedestal + Whereon thou'lt be adored for e'er—e'en while + It shakes—o'ersets the rider! Tremble, thou! + For he who dazzles, makes men Samson-blind, + Will see the pillars of his palace kiss + E'en at the whelming ruin! Then, what word + Of answer from your wreck when I demand + Account of Cromwell! glory of the people + Smothered in ashes! through the dust thou'lt hear; + "What didst thou with thy virtue?" Will it respond: + "When battered helm is doffed, how soft is purple + On which to lay the head, lulled by the praise + Of thousand fluttering fans of flatterers! + Wearied of war-horse, gratefully one glides + In gilded barge, or in crowned, velvet car, + From gay Whitehall to gloomy Temple Bar—" + (Where—had you slipt, that head were bleaching now! + And that same rabble, splitting for a hedge, + Had joined their rows to cheer the active headsman; + Perchance, in mockery, they'd gird the skull + With a hop-leaf crown! Bitter the brewing, Noll!) + Are crowns the end-all of ambition? Remember + Charles Stuart! and that they who make can break! + This same Whitehall may black its front with crape, + And this broad window be the portal twice + To lead upon a scaffold! Frown! or laugh! + Laugh on as they did at Cassandra's speech! + But mark—the prophetess was right! Still laugh, + Like the credulous Ethiop in his faith in stars! + But give one thought to Stuart, two for yourself! + In his appointed hour, all was forthcoming— + Judge, axe, and deathsman veiled! and my poor eyes + Descry—as would thou saw'st!—a figure veiled, + Uplooming there—afar, like sunrise, coming! + With blade that ne'er spared Judas 'midst free brethren! + Stretch not the hand of Cromwell for the prize + Meant not for him, nor his! Thou growest old, + The people are ever young! Like her i' the chase + Who drave a dart into her lover, embowered, + Piercing the incense-clouds, the popular shaft + May slay thee in a random shot at Tyranny! + Man, friend, remain a Cromwell! in thy name, + Rule! and if thy son be worthy, he and his, + So rule the rest for ages! be it grander thus + To be a Cromwell than a Carolus. + No lapdog combed by wantons, but the watch + Upon the freedom that we won! Dismiss + Your flatterers—let no harpings, no gay songs + Prevent your calm dictation of good laws + To guard, to fortify, and keep enlinked + England and Freedom! Be thine old self alone! + And make, above all else accorded me, + My most desired claim on all posterity, + That thou in Milton's verse wert foremost of the free! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0198" id="link2H_4_0198"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FIRST LOVE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Vous êtes singulier.")</i> + + {MARION DELORME, Act I., June, 1829, <i>played</i> 1831.} + + MARION <i>(smiling.)</i> You're strange, and yet I love you thus. + + DIDIER. You love me? + Beware, nor with light lips utter that word. + You love me!—know you what it is to love + With love that is the life-blood in one's veins, + The vital air we breathe, a love long-smothered, + Smouldering in silence, kindling, burning, blazing, + And purifying in its growth the soul. + A love that from the heart eats every passion + But its sole self; love without hope or limit, + Deep love that will outlast all happiness; + Speak, speak; is such the love you bear me? + + MARION. Truly. + + DIDIER. Ha! but you do not know how I love you! + The day that first I saw you, the dark world + Grew shining, for your eyes lighted my gloom. + Since then, all things have changed; to me you are + Some brightest, unknown creature from the skies. + This irksome life, 'gainst which my heart rebelled, + Seems almost fair and pleasant; for, alas! + Till I knew you wandering, alone, oppressed, + I wept and struggled, I had never loved. + + FANNY KEMBLE-BUTLER. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0199" id="link2H_4_0199"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FIRST BLACK FLAG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Avez-vous oui dire?")</i> + + {LES BURGRAVES, Part I., March, 1843.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + JOB. Hast thou ne'er heard men say + That, in the Black Wood, 'twixt Cologne and Spire, + Upon a rock flanked by the towering mountains, + A castle stands, renowned among all castles? + And in this fort, on piles of lava built, + A burgrave dwells, among all burgraves famed? + Hast heard of this wild man who laughs at laws— + Charged with a thousand crimes—for warlike deeds + Renowned—and placed under the Empire's ban + By the Diet of Frankfort; by the Council + Of Pisa banished from the Holy Church; + Reprobate, isolated, cursed—yet still + Unconquered 'mid his mountains and in will; + The bitter foe of the Count Palatine + And Treves' proud archbishop; who has spurned + For sixty years the ladder which the Empire + Upreared to scale his walls? Hast heard that he + Shelters the brave—the flaunting rich man strips— + Of master makes a slave? That here, above + All dukes, aye, kings, eke emperors—in the eyes + Of Germany to their fierce strife a prey, + He rears upon his tower, in stern defiance, + A signal of appeal to the crushed people, + A banner vast, of Sorrow's sable hue, + Snapped by the tempest in its whirlwind wrath, + So that kings quiver as the jades at whips? + Hast heard, he touches now his hundredth year— + And that, defying fate, in face of heaven, + On his invincible peak, no force of war + Uprooting other holds—nor powerful Cæsar— + Nor Rome—nor age, that bows the pride of man— + Nor aught on earth—hath vanquished, or subdued, + Or bent this ancient Titan of the Rhine, + The excommunicated Job? + + <i>Democratic Review</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0200" id="link2H_4_0200"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SON IN OLD AGE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Ma Regina, cette noble figure.")</i> + + {LES BURGRAVES, Part II.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thy noble face, Regina, calls to mind + My poor lost little one, my latest born. + He was a gift from God—a sign of pardon— + That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year! + I to his little cradle went, and went, + And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it. + For when one's very old, one is a child! + Then took it up and placed it on my knees, + And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair— + Thou wert not born then—and he would stammer + Those pretty little sounds that make one smile! + And though not twelve months old, he had a mind. + He recognized me—nay, knew me right well, + And in my face would laugh—and that child-laugh, + Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart. + I meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror, + And named him George. One day—oh, bitter thought! + The child played in the fields. When thou art mother, + Ne'er let thy children out of sight to play! + The gypsies took him from me—oh, for what? + Perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite. + I weep!—now, after twenty years—I weep + As if 'twere yesterday. I loved him so! + I used to call him "my own little king!" + I was intoxicated with my joy + When o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands, + Thrilling me all through. + + <i>Foreign Quarterly Review.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0201" id="link2H_4_0201"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EMPEROR'S RETURN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>("Un bouffon manquait à cette fête.")</i> + + {LES BURGRAVES, Part II.} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>The EMPEROR FREDERICK BARBAROSSA, believed to be dead, appearing + as a beggar among the Rhenish nobility at a castle, suddenly reveals + himself.</i> + + HATTO. This goodly masque but lacked a fool! + First gypsy; next a beggar;—good! Thy name? + + BARBAROSSA. Frederick of Swabia, Emperor of Almain. + + ALL. The Red Beard? + + BARBAROSSA. Aye, Frederick, by my mountain birthright Prince + O' th' Romans, chosen king, crowned emperor, + Heaven's sword-bearer, monarch of Burgundy + And Arles—the tomb of Karl I dared profane, + But have repented me on bended knees + In penance 'midst the desert twenty years; + My drink the rain, the rocky herbs my food, + Myself a ghost the shepherds fled before, + And the world named me as among the dead. + But I have heard my country call—come forth, + Lifted the shroud—broken the sepulchre. + This hour is one when dead men needs must rise. + Ye own me? Ye mind me marching through these vales + When golden spur was ringing at my heel? + Now know me what I am, your master, earls! + Brave knights you deem! You say, "The sons we are + Of puissant barons and great noblemen, + Whose honors we prolong." You <i>do</i> prolong them? + Your sires were soldiers brave, not prowlers base, + Rogues, miscreants, felons, village-ravagers! + They made great wars, they rode like heroes forth, + And, worthy, won broad lands and towers and towns, + So firmly won that thirty years of strife + Made of their followers dukes, their leaders kings! + While you! like jackal and the bird of prey, + Who lurk in copses or 'mid muddy beds— + Crouching and hushed, with dagger ready drawn, + Hide in the noisome marsh that skirts the way, + Trembling lest passing hounds snuff out your lair! + Listen at eventide on lonesome path + For traveller's footfall, or the mule-bell's chime, + Pouncing by hundreds on one helpless man, + To cut him down, then back to your retreats— + <i>You</i> dare to vaunt your sires? I call your sires, + Bravest of brave and greatest 'mid the great, + A line of warriors! you, a pack of thieves! + + <i>Athenaeum</i>. +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Victor Hugo + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 8775-h.htm or 8775-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/7/7/8775/ + + +Text file produced by Stan Goodman and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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