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B O Y H () () D :
WITH
OTHER POEMS,
AND
T R A N S L A TI O N S.
Sic tamen absumo, decipioque diem.
Ovid. Thist. iv. 10. 114,
BY
&aſ a wº
c. CHARLEs A. ELTON.
L ON DON :
LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMAN.
tºmºsºmsº
MDCCCXXXV.
*
* #- - , , , , , , , $2.
• *. f “J” º
Jiménile --
Collection * 3.
TR,
4.99
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*><ſ
J. CHILCOTT, PRINTER, BRISTOL.
Jov, & /,
4-? -as 27
ALTHOUGH such poems, as are conversant with high
passion, will naturally exert the more powerful influence,
there is, yet, always something pleasing to the mass of
mankind in such as are of a didactic or philosophical
cast: such as enforce a principle, or illustrate a senti-
ment: and, notwithstanding the dictum of modern meta-
physical criticism, which would exclude from the order
of poets Goldsmith and Pope, “the Traveller” and the
“Essay on Man” continue to be read. It was this
conviction that induced me to throw together a few
thoughts on the character of Boyhood, and the import-
ance of a judicious method of culture and discipline.
The system, which has found favour among a numerous,
and, perhaps, increasing class of parents, sensitively
anxious with respect to the danger of immoral contact,
bears some resemblance to the plan, which a tradition in
our neighbourhood describes as having been adopted by
an astrologer for his only son: predicting from the stars
iv.
that this son would be stung to death by an adder, he
immured him, in a woodland turret, where the adder
found him.
I have availed myself of this opportunity to revise
such poems and translations of different periods, as I
hoped might please those
quibus haec, sint qualiacunque,
Arridere velim, doliturus si placeant spe
Deterius nostrá. HoR. SAT. i. 10.88.
Clifton, 1835.
CONTENTS.
Page
BOYHOOD, A POEM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . © º º ſº º º ſº º ºs º º º C º I
OCCASIONAL POEMS :--
Musings in the Forest of Soigny . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
The First Kiss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
To Mrs. — . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . © º e º e º e a tº e º e º e 30
Sonnet to Emma – . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
To Georgina , on her Birth-Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
Lines addressed to Anne B–, on her Marriage........ 34
To Anne , on discovering a lyrical Ballad of her com-
position. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . • e e s ſº t e º 'º e s e º e e s a e s e e e s a e s e e 36
To Lucy — . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . gº º ſº e º 'º e º 'º gº 9 @ & © c e s e o e º e 38
To a Twin Sister . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
To —. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
Effusion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . & © & 0 & e s e e s e º e e 42
To a Child . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . * * * * * g º e 43
Effusion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . tº $ tº e º & E tº e º e º 'º e e º e 45
To Julia — . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
Westminster Abbey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
vi
RE-EDITED POEMS :— Page
Chiomara, a Monodrama . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
Robert, King of Sicily . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
The Prison . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Dreams. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . tº e º e g º e s e & e º e º º tº e º e º e º e º e º º ... 70
The Maid of Minehead . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Monologue, supposed to be addressed by an unfortunate
Woman to an AEolian Harp . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Appeal on the Behalf of the distressed Manufacturers...... 80
To a Friend leaving England . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Sonnet on the Church of St. Mary Redcliff, Bristol........ 85
Epistle to Elia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . © & © e º e º e º e 86
Sonnet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Epistle to John Clare. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
The Apathy of Nature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
Lines written on a vernal Day, during Confinement from
Indisposition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . © e º e º e & © e s e e º e º 'º e s e e . . . . 106
A Father's Reverie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Rob Roy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . tº º º ſº e º e º 'º e º ºs e º 'º e º e º e º e º e tº e º ºs e º III
Recollections on the Banks of the Thames .............. 114
Ilfracombe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Written at Brussels, 1827 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
Elegy on my Mother . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122
Sabbath Musings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 124
THE BROTHERS, AN ELEGY :—
To * * * * * . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
The Brothers . . . . . . . . e e o e º e º e s e e º e s we e a e s e e s e e e º 'º e . . . . 142
vii.
Page
A Dream of Orpheus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177
SCENES FROM THE GREEK DRAMA :—
A TRILOGY FROM THE THREE TRAGIc PoETs.
From the Agamemnon. Æschylus ........ e e e o e º e º O & tº º e º 209
From the Electra. Sophocles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247
From the Orestes. Euripides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 280
Homer's Hymn to Ceres ....................... & e o e º e º e º s 301
Bacchus, or the Pirates .................................... 325
Love Benighted, from Anacreon ............................ 331
The Lamentation of Danae, from Simonides.......... & © e º e s a e 333
POEMS OF CATULLUS :—
Atys . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . e - © e º 'º tº e º e º e º e º º e e 337
To the Peninsula of Sirmio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346
Consecration of his Pinnace . . . . . . . . . . . . & © e º e º e o 'º e º e º e e 348
The Sixth Satire of Horace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 351
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS :—
Epistle of Arethusa to Lycotas...... tº e º e º e º G & © & © e º e e º e º 'º 363
The Tale of Tarpeia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . & © e º e o 'º e º s e º e . 368
SELECTIONS FROM QUINTUS CALABER : —
Podalirius consoled by Nestor for the death of his brother
Machaon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 377
Parting of Neoptolemus from his mother Deidamia........ 38]
The Storming of Troy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .391
EXTRACT FROM THE DIONYSIACS OF NONNUS :—
Ampelus, the Young Satyr . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 409
viii.
TRANSLATIONS FROM ModeRN FRENch poets — ”
CHARLEs de ChâNedollé.
Regrets. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . e s e º e º º e e o e º 'º e º e º O & © e . . . 429
The Young Matron among the Ruins of Rome . . . . . . . . . . . . 432
Ode to the Sea. . . . . . . . . . . to e < e o e s e e o e e o e s tº e º e ºs e e o 'º e o o ... 434
From the “Genius of Man”. . . . . . . . . . • * * > - © e º 'º e o e º e º e º & 4.38
CASIMIR DE LA VIGNE.
Battle of Waterloo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 443
Union . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 448
Christian Greece. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 453
Parthenope and the Stranger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 461
DE BERANGER.
The Spot of Refuge. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ºr e s e e º e º 'º e º e s e s e e s 468
ALPHoNSE DE LA MARTINE.
Dedication of “A Last Canto to Childe Harold”. . . . . . . . . . 472
Extract from “A Last Canto to Childe Harold’’.......... 476
B O Y H O O D.
% #oem.
depone timorem
Indignum partu, natumque exemplar habeto :
Cui metuis nil ipse timet.
CLAUDIAN. Laudes Herculis, l. 51.
1ay all fear aside
Unworthy of his birth, and be thy son
Thy own example: he, for whom thou fearest,
Hath for himself no fear.
B O Y HO O D.
DEAR to my heart the primrose-cluster'd vale,
Where life is felt, and balm is in the gale;
Where, like a shower of greenness, from above
The sudden foliage studs with gems the grove;
The crocus, as it sparkles in its dew,
Lends the way-farer's cheek a rosier hue;
Forgetful in the floweret newly blown
Of that its fragile tenure, and—his own
And such art thou !—O source of holier joy!
Gifted and wondrous creature beauteous boy!
Fresh to the world, in thy confiding sight
All nature gleams with phantoms of delight;
4
They by thy path a watch, like genii, keep,
And gild the twilight of thy charmed sleep;
Ah who, that gazes on thy snow-white brow,
Sighs not “be ever thus ! be blest as now !”
Alas! in vain—and could the star-versed sage
Restore the bright illusion of his age,
Thy ruling planet would the future show
With rapture tinted, yet o'ercast with woe.
The curse, that with the blighted earth began,
The curse hath fall’m upon the heart of man;
Love and omniscient wisdom framed the will
Free to decide, to chuse, self-bias'd still ;
That should, unforced by circumstance or fate,
Between th' opposing motives arbitrate.
The intellect was throned, supreme, beyond
The sense, that feigns to hold it in its bond;
No blind machine, the reasoning creature saw
And weigh’d the mystery of the Maker's law :
Walk'd, undeceived, where passion led the way,
And forced the will, degraded, to obey;
Knowledge of ill abridged his forfeit breath,
Yet brought him virtue, though it brought him death.
5
And is, then, all a wilderness within
Is, then, the child of God the child of sin
Still is his nature free to chuse the good;
The mystic water and the cleansing blood
Have justified the virtue that was frail,
And made the plea of penitence avail.
The Father, whom no mortal eyes may scan,
Effused his essence, manifest to man;
The bands of enmity and death he broke;
The Word grew visible, the Spirit spoke;
Issuing from heaven’s impenetrable pale,
He tabernacled in his fleshly veil;
And in his holiness, as love, sublime,
Absolved the sinner and atoned the crime.
Yet must he shape, himself, his arduous way,
Impressions mould the thought, the motive sway;
Trains of link'd circumstance, with choice at strife,
Decide the form and colour of his life.
As kind or hostile is their mix’d controul,
The peace of conscience settles on the soul,
Or cankering guilt; that must, in after years,
Be wash’d by bitter, expiating tears:
6
For deem him not of aid or strength bereft;
Though self-abandon'd, not for ever left;
Athwart the cloud, that lowers above his head,
A ray still pierces, where his footsteps tread;
An eye awakes though darkness close between,
A. hand is busy, felt, although unseen;
What men call chances cross on his career;
He sees, unsought, a stranger's face appear;
The shadow of a dream has past him by,
And each has power and wondrous agency.
Mean instruments his deepest counsels mar,
And slight events are hastening from afar;
Momentous issues on their coming wait,
And seeming accident is more than fate.
Want tries him ; sickness robs of bloom his cheek;
Grief staggers him, and what was strength is weak;
The Merciful hath smitten him to earth,
And a new nature struggles to the birth;
Th’ astounded will, then starting from its chain,
Compels the motive and resumes the rein.
Thou, who in that child's features, so serene,
Discern'st in beauty what thy bride has been,
Graved on thy heart let the reflexion be
What of his weal or woe depends on thee;
Distrust the rigour of a parent’s zeal,
And yield that heart to hope, believe, and feel.
Thy breast the pillow where his fears repose,
His joys and virtues, weaknesses and woes;
Thy staid affection be his earliest creed;
All sullen doubts before that faith recede;
Reproof shall bind him in a silken band,
The stroke that falls is from a father's hand.
Throw round thine eyes, O parent 1 to whom heaven
Th’ entrusted talent of a child has given;
And see how many a boy's ingenuous heart
Is sear'd and harden’d by the parent's part.
A stranger to the fostering smile that owns
Merit where due, the friend's endearing tones;
In dens of reckless revelry he flies
The stony glitter of those ruthless eyes;
False friends beset him ; darkening whispers urge,
And on he staggers, helpless to the verge;
The vicious shun him, in his beggar'd need;
The bigots scan him by their stinted creed;
8
When affluence on his jaded manhood falls,
He shrouds him in his melancholy halls;
There, musing stern on what he might have been,
Misanthropy and silence close the scene.
(1) See Mirabeau, that giant of his kind,
Of monster aspect, but of master mind;
The man whom bounteous nature fitted first
To match the greatest, and o'erawe the worst;
Wild and irregular his passions start,
And kind affections stagnate in his heart;
Wherefore ?—his better genius vainly strove
To win forgiveness or elicit love;
That haughty spirit, contrite, burns in tears;
That stubborn conscience, which hot passion sears,
Bleeds at the touch of love; the soul's on fire,
And sorrow yearns to a relenting sire;
In vain l—the father's hatred fell like frost;
The body perish’d—is the spirit lost 2–.
What pen shall trace the fierce and proud Career
That stretch'd him pale on his untimely bier *
The passions, that devour'd him with their rage,
And plough'd his forehead with the frowns of age,
9
Had gather'd their accelerated tide
From injured honour and love's wounded pride.
Worse than the despot force, which aim'd to bind
In vulgar dungeon that unconquer'd mind;
Worse than the vile surmise which, mask'd, pursued
His steps in crowds, his path in solitude,
He felt the stab of an austere disdain,
The heart thrown back upon itself again.
The vices watch'd for the rejected son,
And pleasure clasp'd him, and ambition won.
The rankling vanity of form disdain’d
By wit o'ercame, by sophist wisdom reign'd;
Till virtue flung herself an easy prize,
And beauty languish'd on his serpent eyes.
Yet in the depths of soul-perversion strove
The real strength of agonizing love;
Yet genius pierced through that voluptuous guise,
The fair alone allured not, but the wise;
And intellect refined, and fancy's fire
Gleam'd through the grossness of debased desire.
Charm'd by the face, a father had abhorr'd,
The girl-adultress fled her ill-match'd lord;
Existence glided on, one rapturous dream,
Love ruled, in anguish, want, despair, supreme:
10
She his oppressions soften’d while she shared,
With him she suffer'd and with him she dared;
Star of his troublous days Sophia shone;
Bright, scorching, keen, she glitter'd and was gone.
Wilful she fell in rashness of her pride,
Her life a crime, her death a suicide
Was then the tumult of those senses hush'd :
Was that heart broken and that spirit crush'd P
On her bewept, though unblest, grave he cast
One melting look, the saddest and the last,
Then turn’d him to the world: did earth not quake
Ere the dread gamester play’d his fearful stake
Was heaven not shrowded in portentous shade,
As onward march'd th’ avenging renegade
When dark eclipse had past o'er Gallia’s sun,
And the whole frame of nations was undone ;
He raised, in haughty and vindictive hate,
His arm, and smote the pillars of the state.
With Tullian accents, bold, impassion'd, grand,
He paralysed the great and fired the land.
The high nobility, his father's class,
He quash'd and levell'd with the common mass;
11
His warning threat upon the platform hurl’d
A monarch's head, his gauntlet to the world;
Then blood, like water, flow'd, scarce yet atoned,
Lust, avarice reign'd, and atheism was throned;
Innocent gore the sharpen'd axe defiled,
That dropp'd with life of woman and of child;
Till late compunctions in his breast rebel,
And foretastes of a vainly-doubted hell.
That outstretch'd arm faint struggles to repair
The devastation where it claim’d its share;
The well-poised throne, sure freedom's guard, restore,
And the brave chivalry, renown'd of yore;
IBut fear'd, distrusted, where he sought to save,
Blindfold he sinks within his yawning grave.
What scath’d his fame to ages yet unborn ?
What, but a father's hate, a father's scorn ?—
I mingle tears with terrors, awe with blame;
Peace to thy soul,-compassion to thy name !
See Chateaubriand l—boyhood's genial mirth
Froze in the circle of his cheerless hearth ;
Behold the nook, where cowering children raise
Their timid glances by the pine-bough's blaze;
12
Through that antique saloon long shadows fall,
As the stern father's steps repace the hall;
The steps advance—the mother's whisper'd tale
Is hush'd, and the suspended listeners quail;
The harsh ejaculation sounds—“who speaks º'
And paleness quivers on those glowing cheeks;
The foot retires—that soothing voice resumes
Its murmur'd tone; the cheek, that faded, blooms;
O moments! sad, yet sweet! in after years
The full-grown man has moisten’d with his tears
That haunt now desolate, and gazing o'er
The tarnish'd tapestries, that sweep the floor,
Midst those remember'd shadows sees appear
That smile so tender and that mien so dear;
Then, gliding by those weed-grown courts, and trees
Whose boughs, dishevell’d, straggle on the breeze
That moans as to his sighs, floats on the tide
Of the world's shifting flood, with Heaven his guide.
Were not the native energies represt?
The milk of kindness gall within his breast
No—for the light, within him, shone from high;
He knew a father and a friend was nigh.
13
Strong in the strength, that mocks at human might,
He smiled at contumely and bore the slight
Of a misjudging world; his hands were pure,
His path, in indigence and peril, sure.
Heart-sick of horrors which his eyes had seen,
In a new world, again, he breathed serene ;
Midst those primeval forests pitch'd his home,
And sate on rocks above the cataract's foam;
His genius did, in this their cradle, scan
The features of uncultivated man ;
The savage, hanging on his lips, grew mild,
And gospel glory dawn'd upon the wild.
But, when these strange vicissitudes were o'er,
The patriot noble trod his native shore;
On courts he fix'd his calm, undazzled eyes,
Nor power could awe, nor stratagem surprize;
Flatteries he spurn’d and threatenings he defied,
Nor deign'd to live a bribed liberticide;
Contented with his conscience and renown
He laid the symbols of his greatness down;
And bared his breast again to meet the blast,
In exile feared and honour'd to the last.
14
His name shall live, the statesman and the sage,
Priest of his faith and prophet of his age.
Read'st thou this strain, thou feeling artless boy
Lean'st thou upon thy father's heart with joy
Or dost thou sadden at the frown that chides,
Or the cold sneer, that tauntingly derides :
Bless him, whose judging kindness makes thee blest,
And him, whose erring harshness wrings thy breast.
Curb with strong patience thy indignant will ;
The kindless father is a father still.
Think, that his nature's frailties are thine own;
Think, that his virtues for his faults atone;
Think on the look that on thy cradle gazed,
The whisper'd prayer for thee, in secret, raised;
Think on that brow, with reverend furrows spread,
Those whitened locks, the glory of his head;
From him be all imagined wrongs forgiven,
As thou, thyself, forgiveness hopest from Heaven
Father that, anxious, tremblest for the boy
Who turn'd his mother's anguish into joy;
Bend not insatiate o'er those winning charms,
Nor yield thy heart-strings to those fettering arms.
15
The parting pang to both will bitter seem;
The bliss of meeting shall that pang redeem.
How rush the sisters to that wish’d embrace
How gaze the parents on that manlier grace;
How the free, natural thoughts expand and blend
With the calm wisdom of the father—friend
The boy unbosoms what his heart conceals,
Whate'er he meditates, whate'er he feels;
Not cowering from the glance, in whose stern light
The pedagogue for ever sears his sight;
Stamp'd on his memory to his latest years,
And coupled still with sullen, abject fears;
But gazing, as an eagle on the sun,
Towards him who had his deep affections won.
Then wisely lose him, and, recover'd, find
The growth unfolded of his firmer mind.
Let him for others form his young esteem,
And range with them the groves of Academe;
Where Discipline evolves her generous plan,
And the boy ripens for the future man.
—Yet vice, precocious, in that hot-bed thrives,
Meek artlessness with strong example strives;
Of vice he learns the nature, not the name,
He learns that fraud is skill, detection shame;
I 6
By hoped impunity of crime he steers,
And feigns a villainy beyond his years.-
(2) What?—are there none—what 2–none of gra-
cious worth :
O bard of Olney ! hapless from thy birth:
Who, weak in morbid frame and mental fears,
Saw'st God's creation through a mist of tears;
On whom th' enthusiast's moody terrors fell,
Whose goodness shudder'd at predestined hell!
What though that lesser field be planted still
With scatter'd tares of intermingled ill;
The passions glare with pre-excited fire,
Hate, wanton Cruelty, and coarse Desire;
With these the spirit strives of lofty aim,
Virtue her reverence meets and Vice her shame.
All candour honoured, bared all false pretence,
The boy's experience is the youth's defence.
Sown in that hardy soil the talents shoot,
The great emotions strike their vigorous root;
There Pride, that spurns the sordid and the low,
The steady arm that breaks th' oppressor's blow;
The heart that melts at undeserved distress,
The hand that hastens with its prompt redress.
17
Launch'd on the world, like barks that brave the winds,
They mingle dauntless with the strife of minds:
Poise the dread balance of the state, or pour
The opulence of realms from shore to shore.
Not shrinking pale at every ruffling blast
They press right onward where their lot is cast;
Make obstacles before their strength recoil,
And dare the brave impossible of toil.
Pleasure and sloth are shiver'd at their shock;
The vices drop, like foam-flakes from a rock;
The weapons they have proved they conquering wield,
Men their compeers, the universe their field.
Reverse the scene; and mark the boy, whose flower
Blows delicate within the parent bower;
Who, like the Trappist anchorite, is taught
To shun communion with his fellow's thought;
To shrink from conflict with temptation's host,
And make a pious solitude his boast:
To tend the culture of the seed within—
From love of goodness —no—from fear of sin.
At length—for come it must—it comes, the time
When life shall meet him in his tender prime;
C
18
When, with a father's blessing on his head,
A mother's tears within his bosom shed,
He joins the crowd; nor yet averse to roam
From the dull langour of his listless home.
A thousand objects strike upon his sense,
Alarm, beset his lesson’d abstinence;
On him seduction gloats with dragon eyes,
Clasps as he turns or tracks him where he flies;
He knows not vice beneath the mask she wears;
His heart's fond trust each specious friendship shares;
Their dupe the wily and the wicked claim,
- Till harden'd custom blunts the edge of shame.
He meets the sceptic, who, with icy sneer,
Cries “whence we are is doubtful, but we're here ;
The true philosophy pronounces plain
Remorse absurdity, repentance vain;
Religion's errors branch from this one tree,
That man's immortal and that will is free.
Now men are bodies; and those bodies, thrust
In catacombs, are mouldering bone and dust;
The mind is but refraction from without
Of images that float the brain about;
19
Sensation opens in the visual nerve;
Reflection dwells on line and square and curve;
The form'd idea clothes itself in thought,
And thus man's intellect is, gradual, wrought;
But—as th’ impressions are mere pictured shades,
To faith in soul they lend mere feeble aids;
We know not if indeed a world there be,
Or all is one ideal pageantry.
Then, as the fancied mind is sway’d to good
Or ill, as outward objects frame its mood,
Necessity compels the act or thought,
And man could work no other than he wrought.
If God, by chance, there be, or nature reign,
The fools alone from what they crave abstain ;
If God his slavish will, or nature, draw,
Still crime is God’s assent, or nature's law;
And, if he but escape th’ accursed wood,
Where'er propell’d, his evil is his good.”
He meets the wine-bibber, who owns no day
But that pale-glaring from the lamp's broad ray;
Where the grape's blood, within the goblet red,
Bounds in the pulse and kindles to the head;
20
Till but the dregs of wit and sense remain,
And in delirious torpor reels the brain.
There youth audacious, there irreverent age,
There boasts, there babblings, there capricious rage
Distract, suspend, confound the pausing will;
The guest still hesitates and lingers still ;
Then raillery plies the cool, insidious sneer,
Then fool-fond friendship drops the maudlin tear;
Till false shame creeps, like palsy, o'er the mind,
Till habit's snaky folds its victim bind.
Happy! were all, their midnight orgy sped,
Stretch'd with yon corpse-like figure, as the dead
But some rush forth to domes that blaze with light,
And with them drag their passive neophyte;
There vice stands opening wide her thousand doors,
There beauty points to mammon's glittering ores;
The ringing ivory tempts the perilous cast,
The spell of lucre chains its novice fast;
Till void and wild the maniac's eyeballs roll,
Or his own blood is sprinkled on his soul.
He meets the stranger, flattering with her tongue,
Her wreathing arms, like ivy tendrils clung,
21
Hold in their prison th’ unresisting slave,
And principle in pleasure finds its grave.
Alas! the daring hope 1 the manly aim :
Alas! his glorious country’s sacred claim!
In that soft death, that langour of the soul,
Ambition shrinks, and faints to reach the goal;
The very charities have ceased to bind
The breast, that once was link'd to humankind;
The very scenes, that charm'd the mind before,
The lake clear-slumbering in its cradling shore,
The sun, that hovers in its purple glow
On Blanc's dark masses, pinnacled with snow;
The sky with its careering stars, that drew
The gaze whose awe with contemplation grew ;
The rolling gulfs of ocean, uttering deep
A mystic voice, or calm’d in moonlight sleep;
These in that maddening trance are all forgot,
As though the world without existed not.
Forgot with these the trains of thought, that rise
As nature wakes our wondrous sympathies;
And impulses, of no material birth,
That lift the veil of intercepting earth
And seas and stars, till visible, th’ Unknown
Shone, as in darkening splendor, heaven his throne.
22
O thou! whose glorious course too soon was run,
O more than nephew 1 and almost a son
Speak from thy tomb by Severn's wailing tide,
The gentle boys reposing at thy side;
Bid thy pure life and tranquil death refute
The caviller's plea, and strike his slanders mute
(3) O young philosophy | O wisdom sought
At Siloa's brook I O early reach of thought!
O poesy' beyond the charm of art,
Fresh from the fancy, glowing from the heart
O spirit ! snatch'd from earth ere earth could stain,
Shall mortal blindness question or complain
Thy memory shall my consolation be,
My privilege of grief—to muse on thee!
NOTES.
(1) Page 8, line 5. These illustrations were suggested by the
able and eloquent reviews of the Memoirs of Mirabeau, and the
Fragments of Chateaubriand’s Auto-Biography, in Blackwood's
Magazine for 1834.
(2) Page 16, line 3. See Cowper's “Tirocinium, or a Review
of Schools.”
(3) Page 22, line 7. The sentiments here exprest are fully
justified by the “Remains of Arthur Henry Hallam,” privately
printed by his gifted father.
animamque nepotis
His saltem accumulem donis et fungar inani
Mumere.—
OCC ASIONAL POIEMS.
27
M U S IN GS
IN THE FOREST OF SOIG NY.
THOU solemn forest ! whose cathedral lines
Of sunless beech, in distance vanishing,
Fall with their darkening shadows on the heart,
I venerate thy glooms, but love them not:
The longing of my soul, the deep desire,
Hid like a picture veil'd, is with those dells
Of heathy verdure, where the white flocks feed,
Those meadows sprinkled with their mottled herds,
Those elmy hedge-rows, that, from upland crag
View'd distant, blend into a maze of wood;
Those woodbine-tangled thickets, where, beneath
Its banks of broom, the rivulet round the root
Of some gnarled oak is fretted into foam,
Then gurgles on its pebbled bed away;
28
And with the green slope of one silent field,
Silent in noon-day sunshine, whence is seen,
Far, the spired city with its blue, dim smoke,
Making the still and verdant solitude
More felt. How fares it with thee, mother isle
Most beautiful, with all thy showery skies,
And noblest of the earth, however scream
The ravens that would suck thy blood. I hear
Their boding cry, but heed not. Speed thee well!
The thought, that muses on thy might and fame,
Widens the space of waves, and takes the wheels
From time's slow chariot. In thy name is pride,
And love is in thy name; and all the ties
That twine themselves around this heart; all hopes
Of happiness to come, all memories sad,
Yet sweet, of perish’d pleasures, friendships lost;
They weave themselves among thy grassy dales
And foliaged fields. I drink thy violet breath
Upon the breeze, and meet the azure glance
And blooming cheek of thy own village maid,
Conscious yet coy, demurely stepping by,
Inimitable with her angel look,
And its own heaven on her expanded brow.
THE FIRST KISS.
THERE is on earth a tender bliss,
Which time and chance would blight in vain;
Enchanted memory dwells on this,
For it must ne'er return again.
'Tis when the lip, adored so long,
Thrills to the lip, that bathes in heaven;
The ravish'd kiss, the painless wrong,
Resented, suffer'd, and forgiven.
Snatch'd in the flame of burning sighs,
As lightning brief, yet felt through years;
Exchanged with silent speech of eyes,
The throb of hearts, the glow of tears 1
30
TO MRS —
I MET thee late in stranger land,
I meet thee midst thy native bowers;
The gentle pressure of thy hand
Recals the moments that were ours;
She, whom I loved, thy friendship proved,
And him thou lovedst, him I loved.
I meet thee—sad, bereaved, alone,
We look upon each other's eyes;
Why should the faltering tongue disown
The bosom's bleeding sympathies?
Ah ! if I would, I dare not fly
The splendor of that darkening eye
The heart, that pines its heavy loss,
Yearns to the heart that suffers too;
The foot, that should my threshold cross
So light, it may not brush the dew,
Would bring repose to restless thought,
And haply find the rest it brought.
31
SONNET
TO EMMA
THE foliage of the woods in sun and shade
Fluctuates before the passing gust, that sweeps
Along the cliff-topt vallies; by the glade
The tall bark glides, as toward the Atlantic deeps
With swan-like canvass, heaving to the breeze,
It wends its fearless way; and lo! anon
The smoke-driven galley, like a pageant, flees
Outstripping its slow deck, and swift is gone;
Ah! would that outward nature could impart
Its own calm gladness to the mind within ;
But she has carried with her every heart,
Whose presence back we may not hope to win;
Methinks upon the rock I see her stand,
The unclasp'd volume in her gentle hand.
32
TO GEORG IN A
On her Birth-Day.
W IT H P E N C I L S.
THIS pencil take from one, who knows the spell
Which bids the kindling eye on nature dwell;
When the mysterious sympathy, that binds
External objects with immortal minds,
Awakes the genius of creative might
And lends effulgence to the common light;
O'er the green dell a fresher verdure spreads,
A gloomier umbrage through the forest sheds;
Widens the brook, expanded to a lake,
Peoples with antler'd deer the desert brake;
Plants the grey ruin on the cliff's bare brow,
Embrowns with autumn's tints the vernal bough ;
From memory's stores and fancy's treasures flings
A mental glory o'er material things;
33
Makes earth and waters own the hand's controul,
And stamps the scene with the directing soul.
So let the present landscape own thy sway,
Receive thy impress and thy art obey.
While the dim vale is touch'd with solemn gleams,
And the rill rushes in romantic streams;
And scenes, we knew and trod, are touch'd with flame
Of hues ideal, yet are still the same :
The heightenings of a skill almost divine,
The emanations of a taste like thine.
Nor let those Eden gems neglected be,
So femininely sweet and worthy thee :
Purest of plants! whose tender blooms dispense
The thoughts of bliss, of peace, and innocence ;
Go—cull the violet from its mossy bed,
And living purple in its petals shed;
Clothe the vale-lily with its drooping bells,
While balm seems stealing from their silvery cells;
And tinge the virgin rose with vital power
And breathing blush—thyself the fairer flower!
34
L IN E S
A.D D RESSED TO A N N E B- O N H E R MARRIAGE.
MINE were a cold unkindliness of heart,
If I could hear of thee and of thy hopes
Unmoved: for thou art one whose friendliness
Time changes not—it must be so, that I
Should with thy name associate sympathies,
Loved recollections, intimate delights,
Such as with no unfrequent visiting
Smile through our clouds of sorrow like the gleams
Of sunshine in a storm. In a sad hour
Thy joyful tidings find me now : for he
My eldest born, in whom my heart is wrapt,
Joy of my life, and darling of mine eyes;
Who, bounding o'er the meadows, made the lamb
His playmate, on affection's patient knees
Pants faint in feverish slumbers. But sweet hope
35
Is mine, that to the breath of vernal air
His crisped locks in many a flaxen ring
Shall wanton ; and his feet elastic bound
Among the meadow lambs and hedge-row birds,
The fellows of his pastime. Be the verse,
Meet for thine ear, mine Anna, tuned to joy:
But shall I from the groves of Paphos call
The Loves, to wave their odour-dropping wings,
And strew thy path with myrtles, or invoke
The fabled marriage god, while breathing flutes
Warble, and sounds are struck from tinkling lyres,
To lift the torch and trail the saffron robe 2
Not fictions, echoed by a thousand bards,
Doth feeling ask, to speak the simple wish
That blessings may be thine ! All interests dear
Of mingling tenderness, all fireside joys,
All pleasing duties, pensive extacies,
All shapings of delight, in very hope
Sweet, and matured to blest realities,
Even in this sorrow-shadowed life, attend
Thee and thy sisters' of myself I think
Less hardly, that, among thy busy thoughts
Of happiness, remembrance lives of me.
36
TO A N N E —,
ON DISCOVERING A LYRICAL BALLAD OF HER COMPOSITION.
ANNA whose mind can blend its sympathy
With Nature in her calmest, holiest hour,
Who from thy casement, wreathed with many a flower,
While darkness sleeps beneath the starlight sky,
And the stream’s murmur thrills thy wakeful ear,
To the lone glow-worm, gilding pale the green,
Or nightingale, oft heard, and still unseen,
Utterest a whisper'd strain, which none may hear;
Thy theme is not th' unanimated grove,
But feeling life and instinct in the shade ;
The gentle creatures thy Creator made,
The symbols of his power and of his love.
37
What marvel ? since thy lineaments reveal
That the Muse rock'd thee in thy cradled rest
And on thy forehead's virgin snow impress'd
The sign and glory of her mystic seal;
And fervid aspirations, pure and high,
Transfuse with light thy wild and radiant eye.
38
TO LUCY —.
THE mind sedate, the pensive grace,
The matron’s thought, the maiden's mirth,
The heaven, which beams from woman's face,
That sunshine of our earth ;
When gloomy retrospects oppress,
Or bodings weigh upon the heart,
That knoweth-its own bitterness,
I’ll think of what thou art.
This shall my secret solace be,
The thankfulness that these are thine ;
The balm that I have lived with thee,
The bliss that thou art mine !
39
TO A TWIN SISTER.
THAT Catharina, whom the poet friend
Of Olney join'd with dear Maria's name,
When soft and slow the dimpling river came,
And as the lime-perch’d nightingale did blend,
Anon, her thrilling note, the poet deem'd
Their voices sweeter, and, in after years,
With look that mingled transient smiles and tears,
Of their angelic presence waking dream’d,
That Catharine art thou!—and thou hast met
Thy own Maria; and the rest, whose mirth
Thine did awaken round our Christmas hearth,
Can ne'er thy gentle tones and eyes forget;
Though happy in thy happiness, they yearn
At thy farewell, and sigh for thy return.
40
TO
I WOULD the heart, that seems to shine
Through eyes of jetty light,
Were, like a fountain's lucid depth,
Transparent to my sight;
Perhaps the lip, that whispers soft,
Is not less false than they ;
Nor words nor looks can hush the fear
That they, alike, betray.
The heart, that in this bosom beats,
Thou know'st is deeply thine;
And I would shed its dearest blood
To know thy love were mine :
But, while in feverish doubt I drink
The poison of thine eye,
Life is but one delirious dream,
And it were best to die.
41
Yet would I bear this rack of bliss,
Nor lift the secret veil;
Lest certainty should blanch my cheek
With horror's deathly pale;
Deceive me still, if still deceived;
Thou read'st this heart of mine;
O passion fatal to my peace
I dare not read in thine !
42
EFFU S I O N.
LET not thy heart's fond trust deceive,
When trusting most then most undone;
A moment may that heart bereave
Of all it loved beneath the sun.
Look on the rose-tree's vermeil gem,
For such thy blooming hope will be ;
Then mark it withering on the stem,
A symbol of thy bliss and thee.
The feeling eyes, that melt and shine,
May darken in their noon of day;
And the kind arm, enlink'd in thine,
Be snatch'd, as in a dream, away!
43
TO A C H I L D.
THou art not mine, although I had,
And have, fair creatures like to thee;
Not mine—yet is my spirit glad
When those bland eyes are bent on me;
Thou blossom of the human wild !
Thou joyous and undaunted child !
No dark forebodings cloud thy mirth,
No keen regrets thy peace assail;
The very plagues that walk the earth
Reserve from thee their terrors pale ;
The roarings of the mighty sea,
Its storms and wrecks, are hid from thee.
A thousand dangers pass thee by,
And leave thee helpless, yet unharm'd;
Still is there rapture in thine eye,
And still for thee the world is charm'd ;
44
And shall we deem that Power unkind,
The Maker of an infant's mind?
Then lean upon thy folded arms,
And let these eyes repose on thine;
That look the sullen spirit charms,
And brightens moments—dark as mine;
How should the world forsaken be,
When there is happiness in thee —
45
E FFU S I O N.
THE lip of bloom, the glance of Rºb
Which are a joy to see,
They seem to others bland and bright,
They are a pang to me.
O where art thou ? again unveil
Those eyes for me that shone;
Say not 'twas thine, the visage pale
That I have look’d upon :
Come—by my couch of midnight stand,
With lustre in thine eye,
And let me touch thy thrilling hand,
Though I that moment die.
46
TO J U LIA —.
SHALL I for ever grieve that she,
Who loved me, whom I loved, is reſt?
Behold I not herself in thee ?
If she is taken, thou art left.
The bloom of beauty on thy cheek,
And woman’s magic in thine eye,
To thee her orphaned children seek,
And thy fond care is ever nigh.
And, when in dark and sullen mood
A father's mind has swerved from truth,
Thou like a prophetess hast stood
More awful from that blooming youth ;
47
Hast pointed to the sacred page,
Hast fix’d that mild, yet piercing eye;
And calm'd the torment of his rage,
And bade him, meek, to look on high.
Thou treasure of a widow'd man,
Thou mother of the dear ones spared,
Whose charm with girlhood’s grace began,
Whose worth both I and mine have shared;
What blessing can my thoughts devise
For thee, pure creature that thou art,
O firm, yet gentle, young, yet wise !—
But the still whisper of thy heart?—
48
WEST MIN STER A B B EY.
THE bow’d and broken spirit may not rest
On the bare mountain's cloud-o’ertopping crest,
Though there heaven's azure space diffused above
Smile down, as in immensity of love :
Nor lingering in some thicket of the vale
May it the breath of the wild rose inhale,
Nor trace where trickles from its mossy nooks,
Inaudible, the crystal of the brooks;
Nor on the weedy crags of th’ ocean shore
May it hang listless, when the wave's deaf roar
Reverberates and recedes, and knells again
Its clang of waters on the storm-hush'd brain.
All nature's outward circle is a snare
For those who languish in their cold despair.
49
Mysterious whispers stir the leaves; the light
Shows visionary pale; shapes dimly bright
Rise up on rocks, or by some well-known tree;
Gestures and tones make strange society,
Things that have been and must no longer be.
Therefore I come to thee, dread pile ! and bless
The awful beauty of thy holiness;
The prophets of new faith, who hotly rent
Christ's seamless robe, have left thy shrines unshent;
And much, where zealots pageant mummery see,
Prayer fervid, decent pomp, remains with thee.
How gorgeous with its orient hues the glass
Purples the slanting sun rays, as they pass
In breaks of colour'd gold, and tremulous fall,
Like beams of mercy, on those pillars tall!
Hark!—from th’ invisible minstrel's finger-touch
Rolls the broad stream of music —haply such
Burst o'er the midnight fields of Bethlehem,
Where shepherds watch'd and angels sang to them :
And voices, as of women, shrill yet sweet,
The chanted “miserere” sad repeat;
And fair, and young, and aged prostrate blend
Words steep'd in fire, and secret sighs ascend;
Tº
50
There let the heart, on which the earth has weigh’d,
Seek refuge; there, in death's contiguous shade;
There taste the hope by gospel promise given,
Patience in mortal ills, and peace with heaven!
R. E-EDITED POEMS.
53
C H I O M A. R. A.
A M O N O D R A M.A.
Scene.—The Camp of the Telisthoboii.
EMBRACE me not, my husband though return’d
From a captivity more terrible
Than subterranean darkness, worse than chains
Or midnight summons to the rack, no joy
Should gratulate my coming: thou must hear
If as thy wife, the mother of those babes
Who bear thy mirror'd likeness, I am still
Worthy that virtuous name.
Ortiagon
Where was thy arm, when that ill-fated chance
Threw me, a helpless captive, left to beg
A Roman's mercy.” Mercy oh ye gods !
As they have shown to my dejected state
Compassion, so be merciful to them 1
54
My countrymen | ye deem that in our breasts
Lives something of a nature more refined
Than in the breasts of men; that we are warm'd
With a diviner spirit; and that heaven
Hath oft inspired us in the battle-hour
With supernatural ardour, with the breath
Of wondrous prophecy.
But there are men,
Yea, there are beings in the form of men,
In whom the glorious aspect of our sex
Works not these holy sympathies; who gaze
On our pure forms, the temples of the gods,
Where oft their spirit dwells, with brutish eyes
And passionate impulses: such men are they
Who war against our race: who track our haunts
In marshes and in wilderness of woods
That they may wade in blood; the blood of babes
Who suck their mothers’ breasts; the blood of those
Whose locks are white with venerable age.
These men would sweep us from the earth; would mix
Our crumbling bones with fire, and bid the grave
Swallow us up ; ourselves, our very race,
55
Sires and their sons, as we had never been
As though the gods, who call'd us into life,
Err'd in their wisdom, or as though to live
Were possible, unless with liberty
Oh, it were sweeter far to taste of death
Than feel this bitterness of shame; the sting
Of this self-loathing; inexpressible,
Indignant horror!—No, thou shalt not fold
Dishonor to thy bosom.—Start not back—
Hear me a little moment; for to me
Thy reverence, oh my husband l is the all
For which I bear to live, and thou shalt yet
Revere me, though degraded.
Yea, the deed
Which burning anger hath not breath to name,
The deed of darkness and of infamy
Is done: but that centurion, whose fell grasp,
More hateful than the serpent’s twining folds,
Enshackled my free form, had sought in vain
By open and conflicting violence
To wreak his damned purpose. Witness gods !
56
These hands should first have torn his orbs of sight
From forth their bleeding sockets, or comprest
His throatin the grasp of death! Base, treacherous, cold,
Hard-hearted villain l—he beheld me faint
With hunger; parch'd my lips and hot my pulse
With thirst intolerable, and weary and weak
In body and in mind: he smooth'd his looks
With seeming kindness: oh ! all-patient heaven
The faith of righteous hospitality
He pledged and violated.
Ye are Gauls |
I marvel not that this astonishment
Frowns on your lifted brows : ye have not known
What is a Roman. g
I was grateful then;
Refresh’d by food and wine, I felt the glow
Of thankfulness, the confidence of trust;
Oh shamelessly oh barbarously ensnared
Some philtre accursed lock'd my senses up ;
I waked undone : the ruffian's eye-beam shunn’d
The curse of mine.
57
A little moment yet
Grant me your patience. Ye have sent the price
Of ransom. Husband l it was more to me
Than rescue, for it gave the blessed means
Of a wrong'd woman's vengeance. Judge if yet
I do deserve the name.
Ortiagon
While bending o'er the gold, by his own sword
He fell, and Chiomara gave the blow.
The passport open'd to our steps a way
Through the foe's watchful camp; while in his tent
That man unmerciful a headless corse
Was left; and lo! the spectacle of death !
[She produces from underneath her robe the head
of the centurion.
Those livid features witness to the truth.
I have no more to utter: thou may’st now
Embrace me: husband 1 I am worthy thee
58
ROBERT, KING OF SICILY.
A TALE FROM THE GESTA ROMANORUM.
SICILIA’s king, in all his pride,
To our blest lady's church would ride,
And hear the even song;
He rode, all goodly to behold,
In tissue clad of azure and gold;
Behind his barons throng;
In a rich painted gallery
He sat in pomp full royally.
No cunning verse might well declare
The riches of that chapel fair;
The gates were burnish’d brass;
Of massive wax the tapers green
In silver shone, with glimmering sheen,
And priests were seen to pass
59
In red-cross garments, one by one,
To th’ altar steps of jasper stone.
The altar was with crimson dight,
All flowered with gold and jewels bright,
And in a niche on high
The virgin queen of heaven did stand,
With ball and sceptre in her hand,
And robe of scarlet dye;
The babe, in cloth of silver drest,
With crown of gold, lay on her breast.
But now was heard the organ peal,
Ladies and knights were seen to kneel;
The king still kept his chair:
And now magnificat was sung;
This stave by choral voices rung
Was echoed sweet in air;
“En superbos Deus stravit,
Humiles et exaltavit.”
Wist not the king what words were those ;
He bade a learned clerk disclose
The Latin mystery;
60
“Sire,” quoth the monk, “the God most great
Hath cast the haughty from their seat,
And raised the humble high ;”
“Peace P’ cried the king; “for well I know
There liveth none could bring me low.”
The pealing music now had ceased;
Heard was the blessing of the priest;
The rustling pavement sounds;
The tapers blink with feebler light,
Then vanish into smoke; dun night
Each marble aisle surrounds;
But slumbering sate the king on high
Within the painted gallery.
Sudden he woke, and, sore amazed,
Darkling, his angry voice he raised,
The roof did shrilly ring;
With torch-light came the sexton old,
A staff within his griping hold,
And look’d upon the king;
“Hah! lozel vile !” he roared, “what now
In holy church here filchest thou?”
61
Thick fell the staff, forth fled the king,
Hoarse threats of vengeance muttering,
And reach'd the palace gate;
He blew the horn, and blew again;
“A curse upon my worthless train,
Who make their monarch wait !”
With lamp the porter came : “what hol
Rnave 1 is it thou that brawlest so *
“Hah! traitor vile and renegade l’”
Beside himself the monarch said,
“Thou shalt be hanged to death :”
. The porter strove with many a blow ;
The king in wrath he struggled so
That he was spent of breath ;
Yet by hard dint and strength of frame
Into the palace hall he came.
Blessed St. Mary ! what a sight!
In tissue of gold and azure dight
Himself was seated there;
He rubb'd his eyes and look’d again;
Himself, amid the courtly train,
Sate in a velvet chair;
62
While many a knight and smiling dame
With golden chess-men plied their game.
There stood he mute—when one and all
With laughter shook the dinning hall;
The seeming Robert spoke ;
“Good chance hath sent this merry knave;
Let him a fit apparel have
For tale and gibe and joke;
And he shall stay to make us sport,
For state is banish’d from our court.”
Straight at the mandate of the king
A motley coat the menials bring,
Of yellow, blue, and red;
A long-eared hood he wears beside
With squirrels' tails diversified,
That dangle from his head;
Fool of the hall, he rolls his eyes,
And shouts of laughter deafening rise.
Now where the stabled asses sleep
He to his bed is fain to creep,
And, passing through the door,
63
His barking dogs around him bay;
He envies those that fawning stray
To glean the banquet-floor;
With dainty morsels they are fed,
While he must sup on broken bread.
With early sun the trump he hears
Sound an alarum to his ears,
And trampling horses neigh;
Letters from Urban, Pope of Rome,
Invite his brother-king to come
To feast and tourney gay;
The court on steeds and chariots ride,
And he, the fool, must run beside.
Launch'd are the painted gallies now,
The foam is dash’d beneath the prow,
In air the streamers play;
With sparkling oars and swelling sails
They swiftly skim before the gales,
And chase the flying spray;
Rhegium receives them from the main;
The fool still follows in their train.
64
The seeming king before him went,
In cloth of gold magnificent,
On courser white as snow;
The golden stirrups glisten’d bright,
The saddle was with velvet dight,
With pearls the saddle-bow ;
All Italy was glad to see
A monarch of such majesty.
Foot-sore and sad the fool was fain
To climb the hill and trudge the plain ;
The dust his visage hides;
And oft he turns a rueful eye
Where, as it seems, himself on high
In regal pageant rides;
Now sound the clashing streets of Rome,
And thousand voices shout—“ they come !”
Midst ranks of knights in gilded mail
They pass, and roses thick as hail
Fall on them from on high ;
From balcons rich, with arras hung,
Leans many a lady, fair and young,
With pleasure in her eye;
65
The pope with mitre and red pall,
And many a scarlet cardinal,
Await them in the castle hall.
Or ere the feast is served, the king
Would break a lance amid the ring;
The lists inclose the train;
In armour clasp'd he mounts his horse,
Knight after knight beneath his force
Is tumbled on the plain;
Fair dames with laurel wreathe his head,
The sun is set, the feast is spread.
Flouted and jeer'd the motley man
From forth the pope's wide palace ran,
A shouting crowd pursued;
From street to street he coursed along,
And found, at distance from the throng,
A place of solitude;
He looks, and by the moon-beam clear
Discerns a holy chapel near.
The door half-open'd stands; he flies :
With trembling knees and streaming eyes,
And at the altar bends;
F
66
His veins glow hot; his pulses beat;
An organ-pipe breathes soft and sweet,
A vocal strain ascends;
“En superbos Deus stravit,
Humiles et exaltavit.”
I wean king Robert knows full well
What tones are they, that warbling swell
The vaulted roofs around;
And on his cheek there hangs a tear
Of meek remorse and pious fear;
While, as the floating sound
In lessening murmurs distant dies,
Prostrate before the cross he cries;
“Lord! I am vile as sinners be;
Honor is none, but comes from thee;
Lord! to thy fool give grace
Unworthy I the crown of king;
Yet to thy fool thy pity bring,
In this same holy place;
Unworthy I to kneel in prayer,
Yet, Lord! thy fool in pity spare!”
67
The chancel lay in the dim moonshine—
Who could that sudden light divine
From garments like glistening snow
A golden diadem on his head,
With cheek as the clear vermillion red,
And locks of amber flow,
God’s angel stood 'gainst the chapel wall;
The same who sate in Robert's hall,
And rode to Urban’s festival.
He by the hand the monarch took;
His golden wings he, fluttering, shook,
And glided smooth and fast;
Hover'd above the ground his feet,
Through the paved ways in motion, fleet
As light or sound, he pass'd ;
And Robert sate in Urban's hall,
And shared his brother's festival.
68
T H E PRISON.
A WIS 1 O N.
I PASSED a studded door and entered in
Through alleys dark; when from a dungeon room
Came sounds of desperate and fantastic din,
Through pestilential air and murkiest gloom.
Sudden I mingled with a savage crowd
Who cunning laugh’d or fix’d a shameless stare;
Their mirth was loose and blasphemous and loud,
It had the scorn and courage of despair.
And some there were of woman's gentle mein
Who reel'd in frontless riot, strange to see;
And boys, with eyes as innocence serene,
Plied their small thefts beside the mother’s knee.
The horror of the scene upon me fell,
So that a trance enwrapp'd my senses round;
But when I waked from this appalling spell,
The spot I trod was changed to holy ground.
69
The crowd were present, but no more the same;
The gale breathed fresh, the sunshine pour'd its day;
Hush'd voices murmur'd low, and saddening shame
Upon the once-flush’d cheek in paleness lay ;
The hum of industry was heard around;
The oracle of life was open spread;
The boy hung docile o'er th’ enlightening sound,
And harden’d vice awoke as from the dead.
Though not a heaven, it seem'd a heaven-like place,
Gladden'd with hope, by penitence refined;
And, looking up, I saw an angel's face,
And bless'd the sister who redeem'd her kind.
70
D R EAMS.
THAT sage has never laid on fancy's lap
His charmed head, who deems the sense of life
In slumber lost; who, yielding up himself
As to a sad necessity, beholds,
Elate, the dawnlight's golden glimmering streak
His curtain'd couch, then springs impatient forth,
And boasts he feels existence. Sweet th' escape
From cold realities to that new life,
Whose self-creations, vivid and soul-felt,
The work of wonder-shaping intellect,
Wake, when the body sleeps. Shine forth thou moon
My bed's mute visitant; lift thy full orb
From the sea's trembling verge, expanded full
Like an ensanguined shield; till slow it climbs
And lessens as it climbs; and, hovering high
In the blue calm of ether, sheds abroad
A snowy splendor. Through my heart I feel
71
Thy influence glide; thy beams of lambent light
Steal on mine eyes and swimming slumber veils
The consciousness of vision. Then awake
The eye and ear of fancy; then the soul
Works subtle sorcery: oceans interposed
Shrink and are dry. The friend, whom tented fields
Had severed from me, sits beside me now
As in time past; the self-same oak above
Expands its dome of leaves; the rivulet sends
The same cool murmur to my listless ear;
And sweet it is, reclining on the moss,
To hear that well-known voice, and feel the hours
In gentle converse with that rivulet's haste
Glide fast away. How more than blest is he
Whose own beloved twines in startled sleep
Around the fibres of the conscious brain ;
When the heart melts to know that placid smile,
So fond and so confiding ; then the gloom
Of midnight brightens, ’tis the scene of home.
If snatch'd by dizzying wheels athwart the bleak
And darkling heath, or on the starless deck,
Reeling in storm, stretch'd prostrate, there, ev’n there,
The fireside light reflects on rubied cheeks, º
), 72
And little hands are twined within his grasp;
His ears are thrill'd with well-known tones and sounds
Of laughter unreprest; the long'd-for hearth
Dawns, like a vision, on the slumbering man.
In those sleep-hallow'd moments, shadowings dim
Of hope, that vanish from the glare of day,
Take a consistence and a form ; linked scenes
Of dear adventure, that compress a life
Into an hour, beside the lonely couch
Pass and repass, while the harsh ills of time
Obtrude not, and the brain is charm'd from grief.
The lover—no, reality itself
Scarce equals that blest moment, when he grasps
The hand, so long withheld, that trembles soft
Within his trembling pressure; when his eyes
Drink in the lucid languishment of look
That thrills the shivering nerves; the mystic glance,
Avowing all unutterable things,
And kindling hope to madness. Rise not yet
Unwelcome sun for never shall he know
So sweet a moment: never, though he clasp
His idol, feel a moment like to that,
When ev’n impossibility gave way
73
At fancy's bidding, and the leaning cheek,
The lips' warm fragrance and the whisper low,
First felt and heard in credulous ecstacy,
Mingled the zest of mystery with bliss,
The tumult of amazement so would he
For ever dream; nor wake, unless those eyes
Whose sidelong glance, voluptuous in reserve,
In the lone night or solitary day
Flashes on memory, that the heart's pulse leaps
In lightning recognition, shall await
His waking, with their bland and watchful gaze.
74
T H E M AID OF MIN E H E A D.
Avoid it—virtue ebbs and wisdom errs
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers.
BYRON.
THE Severn sea, that chafes with foam
The beetling cliffs around it flung,
Was the nigh prospect of thy home,
The fisher's hut with crags o'erhung;
And all the ventures of that sea
Were as a hope and life to thee.
And the steep island-rock by day
In far-off mist or sunshine rose;
The level sister-isle its ray
Flash'd from the tower at evening's close;
And sails were glancing far and near
That were to thee a joy or fear.
75
Thy father's hand was on his net,
His hoary locks were dash’d with spray;
And those, whom thou canst ne'er forget,
Thy brothers were his help and stay;
Thy thoughts are with them on the deep,
Their voices soothe thee in thy sleep.
That inland scene was also loved;
Thy bare feet trod the heathy dale;
A wayward truant thou hast roved
Beyond the lawn's moss-mouldering pale;
And deer, that couch'd in ashen shade,
Have gazed upon the guileless maid.
The city spires have met thine eyes,
Midst crowded ways thy walk has been;
The column'd theatre's surprize
Of light and sound and moving scene
Has charm'd thy inexperienced heart,
And still has left thee—as thou art
The myrtle, taught by thee to bloom
In nook which ocean's breezes fann'd ;
The rich geraniums' keen perfume
Breathe to thee of that rocky strand ;
76
The nurslings of thy tasteful eye,
Thy cheap, thy only luxury.
That sweet-tongued speech will sweetliest tell
Of bark return’d when hoped-for long;
The mild deer couching in the dell
Are with thee midst the hurrying throng;
Thy brothers' praise is still thy charm,
How gay of heart, how strong of arm.
It is a happiness to see
Thine eyes flash light with themes like these ;
Thy buoyant spirit, blithe and free,
Fitting a daughter of the seas,
Thy airy laughter would deceive
Those who have never seen thee grieve.
The sod, that on thy mother lies,
Is green within thy memory now;
And tears have glazed thy wistful eyes,
To think upon thy father's brow;
Who, that thy playful wiles should see,
Could dream that sorrow dwelt with thee *
77
And yet those darkening brows, that look
Averted, and that heaving breast,
Which smother'd sobs to passion shook,
That hand to mine convulsive prest,
That self-accusing scarlet hue,
And weeping, like the silent dew—
What—is it thus no gentle tear
This, which the dead or absent crave;
A sadder wretchedness is here,
An anguish bitterer than the grave;
Had he a heart, who could deceive,
A heart—who, having loved, could leave
He loved—he left; but, whether kind
Or treacherous, ne'er was known to thee;
Thy sighs were mingled with the wind,
That bore him o'er th’ Atlantic sea;
But silence rests upon his name—
Living or dead, to thee the same !
78
MO NOLOGUE,
SUPPOSED TO BE ADDRESSED BY AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN TO
AN AEOLIAN HARP.
THOU viewless lute, whose fleeting tones
Soar high and sink with dying fall,
Is there a meaning in thy moans,
That on the twilight echoes call?
To me they tell a plaintive tale
Of shores where once I wander'd free ;
Again that sound is in the gale,
The murmur of the western sea.
Ah! were thy dreamy harp-strings hung
^ º' Within my far home's latticed bower,
When evening's gust thy chimes had rung,
What then would be thy strain of power
79
Would it not speak of one who loved,
Who loved, not wisely, but too well,
Of maiden guilt by sufferings proved,—
Answer!—thou dim, mysterious shell!
Would it not breathe of things from high,
The still, small voice of pitying heaven;
The sister's, daughter's, contrite sigh,
And frailties mourn'd, forgot, forgiven P
With every breath beneath the skies
That o'er thy trembling pulses moved,
This thought should gleam from melting eyes,
The LosT MARIA, but the loved /
80
APPEAL
ON THE BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED MANUFACTURERS.
Written at Brussels.
FROM lands that bear the orange and the vine,
How many a traveller, England, turns to thine!
The clouds, that lower above thy pastured scene,
Have cloathed its meadows with a living green;
Thy sun, though cold, yet gilds the ripened corn,
And the cot peeps beside the blossom'd thorn.
Not the bronzed cheek and darkling eyes of France
Can match the rosy bloom and azure glance
Of that mild matron, with her babe on knee,
Or theirs who climb th' o'erbranching orchard-tree.
Nor less does he recal the joyous din,
Beguiling toil those ample halls within :
Where, as the wheel rolls round or shuttle flies,
The song light-hearted to the clang replies.
81
Return, and oh behold !—is that the room
Where labour smiled, so wrapt in silent gloom *
Are those the piles that reared thy country's fame,
So shatter'd, lone, and black with smouldering flame?
Are those the faces of our English land,
Stern, lurid, glaring to the midnight brand 2
Are those the features, that in ruddy mirth
Shone round the blaze of evening's cottage hearth
Those aspects, haggard with untold distress,
That childhood's mute, unnatural pensiveness
Is that gaunt form, which on the bosom leans
The head, an inmate of those rural scenes
Is that wan matron his, the maid he woo'd,
And are they hers, that melancholy brood
Is that cold root their all of daily bread
Is that damp, sordid floor their only bed
And are those tatter'd vests the only screen
When the burst casement breathes the frost-winds keen P
Was then the bard of Auburn's tale to this
A tale of sorrow, that might seem of bliss
Ye, who have dwelt on that electric page
Which gives one day the glory of an age;
G.
82
The record of the strife, when horse and lance
Swept the slope plain, and the shrill shout of France
Ascended through the smoke that hid the dale;
When Jena's warriors, in their burnish'd mail,
Crested the ridge above the “Sacred Farm,” *
And round the squared bands flash'd their weapon'd arm; §§
Then, reeling in their imminent recoil,
Retrod the trampled corn-field's miry soil;-
What could the shock of that fierce rush withstand
The peasant bosom, the mechanic hand
They, who, unblanching, watched the plumy war
Rolling its deepening order from afar;
They, who for England's banner pour'd their blood,
"Tis they who plead—their brethren pine for food |
Ye, to whose form and fairer mind ev'n they,
Who hate our England, rapturous homage pay;
Wife daughter | mother' whose meek loyal worth
Makes this our isle the island of the earth;
Assuage the wife's, the daughter's, mother's pains,
'Tis your own blood that flows within her veins.
Save them from wo, to whose untimely blight
The pains of hunger and of cold are light;
83
The wo that broods, with eyes that cannot shed
Relieving tears, on babes that cry for bread.
Save them from guilt, the tarnish’d honest name,
The plea of want, the torment and the shame.
Save them from faction, watching at the ear
Of penury, to whisper “hope is here:”
Poisoning the heart to arm the traitor's hand,
A Canaan promised in a plunder'd land.
Warm the chill'd bosom, raise the drooping head,
Stand forth between the living and the dead;
While the slow statesman blinding spells have bound,
Rise, ere the pent-up earthquake heave the ground;
Like ministering angels haste, and save.
Your kind and country from one common grave!
84
TO A FRIEND LEAVING ENGLAND.
THE blessings, that to earth are sent,
Like angel-guests but come and go;
The spell dissolves, the tie is rent,
And brief the date of bliss below.
And thou, the nursling of the muse,
Thy flower has bloom'd, thy light hath shone;
Mine eye thy ocean-track pursues,
I feel thy grasp—and thou art gone.
I trace in joys, that passing fly,
In hopes, that chase the hour-glass sand,
The watchings of a father's eye,
The beckonings of a father's hand.
Not here our home; and grief and care,
Those stern, kind monitors, repeat—
“Here is your prison-house, and there
The bourn where kindred spirits meet.”
85
S O N N ET
ON THE CHURCH OF ST. MARY REDCLIFF, BRISTOL.
ToweR that like some old pyramid dost rear
August thy massive pile, which lightning strook
In days of yore, while rolls this earthy sphere
The ages of mankind shall on thee look.
(4) For he, who, pacing lone the river-mead,
Watch'd the sun's glory, that around thee shone,
With wild, enthusiast gaze, though dark his deed,
Hath found in thee a monumental stone.
O marvellous boy! that pride was not of earth
Which made thee bear all misery but scorn;
Thy inspirations were of heavenly birth,
And fancy-tinted with the hues of morn;
Ev’n the writhen brow, that spoke thy fierce despair,
Told of th’ immortal spirit prison'd there.
86
EPIST LE TO E LIA.
SUGGESTED BY HIS ESSAY se MOLLE ATOUE FACETUM,” ON NEW
YEAR'S EVE, IN THE LONDON MAGAZINE.
I WOULD that, eye to eye, it were my lot
To sit with thee, the chafing world forgot;
While the ‘grape's uncheck'd' virtue in the cup
“Moved itself right, and as the hearth blazed up,
Ruddying our cheeks, thy witty eloquence
Threw brighter sparkles forth than sparkled thence.
Such midnights in our beings are inwrought;
Less meant for present bliss than after-thought.
True—they are past; while we laugh on, they fly;
The morning moon has faded from the sky,
While at our supper board (no Circe's sty,
But where old Horace might have sate and told
His panic at Philippi,) we unfold
The heart's recesses; to our pillows then,
And the sun finds us mix’d with common men.
87
But this brief night remains; a thing to tell
And re-enjoy; a mirth-provoking spell
To call up sympathies in other hours,
And waken joyous laughs in distant bowers.
But then the grave!—the green lanes, quiet streets,
Grape-juice, the savour of delicious meats,
The eye-beam's gladdening interchange, the smile,
Books, folios yet uncut, (alas the while !)
There is an end of these, of these and all:
The man survives not his own funeral :
But a strange phoenix, nay, a goblin-self,
Peeps from the shell: a hollow-whistling elf
Cold as a moonbeam; sitting on a cloud
Of which it seems a part; a ghost; a shroud;
Raw thought: mind nakedly intuitive :
“Is this to be 2 to be a MAN ? to live 2"
No—but we like not this same cyprus stole
Wherewith thou dizenest out the future soul.
That soul is human, Elia | nor disjoin'd
From an organic mould: not formless mind,
But spiritual form: 'tis not our thought,
But our whole self in fairer substance wrought:
88
Not a mere shadow, a poor conscious name,
But the identical-and feeling same.
As well remain a clay-commingling clod
As mix with Ægypt's old esoteric god,
Soul of the universe, and fleeting wide
Be all divine, yet unidentified;
Or, like the spectral lemures of Rome,
Err from the confines of our loathed home.
Was it for this the MAN of CALVARY stood,
Touch'd, handled, felt again by flesh and blood
Or that the grave shall heave, the marble rive,
The dry bones shake, the dead stand forth alive 2–
The change that takes them shall but re-create,
Shall super-add, but not annihilate:
Raise us to height above this mortal Span,
The perfect stature of a heavenly MAN.
The hand that made us hath not lost its skill;
The power that bless'd us—hath he lost the will P
The same that call'd the patriarch to his feast
Of air, sea, earth—his bounty hath not ceased
With this breath's gasp:—the friends, that call'd us dear,
Have join’d in fresh carousals; dried the tear
89
Superfluous or impertinent: forgot
We moulder; tomb-stoned, and remember'd not:
Yet is there ONE to whom we are not lost,
Though in flames wasted or in billows tost;
Who spreads the mausoleum of his sky
O'er those to whom their kind a tomb deny;
Holds them more precious than his brightest star,
Marks their strown dust and gathers it from far.
Yea—there is ONE, whose never-sleeping eye
Pierces the swathing clay wherein we lie,
The chrysalis of man; and forth we spring
On no ethereal metaphysic wing;
A body glorified, but not disguised;
Angelical, but not unhumanized.
The creature, that had the CREATOR'S seal
Imprest upon him, that with plastic zeal
Soften’d the marble into flesh, could give
To canvas tinted glory, and bid live
The faces of the dead; or skilfully
In dwellings match the geometric bee,
And beautify the space of earth with piles
Cloud-piercing, and eternal as the isles;
Is such a creature goblin-changed a sprite
Like th’ antick ghostly crew, that cross'd the sight
90
Of Rip Van Winkel in the mountain glen,
Playing at thundering bowls in guise of men,
Close jerkin and protuberant hose, with mirth
Starch'd, dumpish, queer, that smack'd not of this earth;
Staring and speechless, with lack-lustre eye,
An uncouth pageant of dull gramarye –
Or prim as key-stone angels, perch'd aloof,
With atlas palms up-propping th' old church-roof,
Rouged, hatted, peruqued, sleeved, with cravat laced,
Girt, nathless, with a pair of wings (such taste
And orthodoxy th’ elder carvers graced)
Each smirking at his like 2 No–never dream it;
If thou but think this error, O redeem it!
The same, that shadow'd the green leafy dells,
And gave them music sweeter than thy “bells,”
Has furnish'd out thy heaven by the sweet name
Of paradise: and thou too art the same :
The soul that revell'd in thy Burton's page
Shall be alive with thee; the bard and sage
- Thou lovedst here, they wait but thy arrival;
Thy death a sleep, thy rise a self-survival.
Yea—thou shalt stand in pause, when thou hast set
Thy foot upon heaven's threshold, and beget
91
Effaced remembrances of forms and times,
Greetings and partings, in these earthly climes;
And there shall come a rush upon thy brain
Of recollected voices, a sweet pain
Of sudden recognition; gentle stealings
"Of wakened memory, deep, bewildering feelings,
And salutations, that shall make thee start
At thy own consciousness, and feel thou ART |
Shalt thou, ingenuous Elia | do this wrong
To one who merits frankincense and song
Art thou of those whom the quaint bard, yet sage,
Much slander'd Quarles, pourtrays in mystic page,
Batavian souls, wing'd infant frows, well hoop'd,
With frill'd skull-cap, well boddiced and well loop'd;
One in a skeleton's ribb'd hollow coop'd;
One to the low earth, leg-lock'd, fain to fly;
One striking at its void rotundity
With bended finger, and astonied listening
The tinkling echo, with eyes vacant glistening?
Thou art not of them--I forgiveness crave
For him, the friendly ANGEL OF THE GRAVE.
92
His robe is white as fleeces of the flocks;
The holly leaf entwines his raven locks;
There is a quiet in that brow serene
Calmer than sleeping infant’s calmest mien ;
The mystery of stillness! all is there
Soft, pure, seraphic, tender, touching, fair.
A crystal light melts from his fringed eyes,
Like gleams, o'er mountain tops, of morning skies;
He hath a voice that makes the hearer mute,
Low, liquid, lulling, like a midnight flute;
The phial in his hand is not of wrath;
But dropping balm'd elixirs in thy path :
The tears he draws are medicinal tears,
That from the pillow steal remorseful fears;
That wash the stains of custom and foul sin
Away; through chinks of thought light entereth in;
Light from the east; and we look up, and earth
Shows like a den; we strive for second birth,
And fain would haste to those who died before ;
Wading with Christian the deep river o'er,
That seems to deepen toward th’ enlarging shore,
Where stand two shining ones; while other bright,
“Familiar faces,” palpable to sight,
Throng the pearl gates and streets of chrysolite.
93
The viper, which thou fanciest, is the bold
And beauteous serpent, streak'd with emerald, jet, and
gold;
His slough is in the brake, his colours in the sun;
Nay—these are diamond sands that in thy hour-glass
run ;
They glisten with the jewel's lasting dew ;
Joys lent to time, not lost; and others new,
That, like that serpent orb’d, shall still themselves pursue.
The feasts, at which thou sitt'st, shall still be shared
By such as thou dost value; and unscared
By hooded griefs that “push us from our stools,”
Unsoured by knaves, and unprofaned by fools.
Thou shalt be human still ; and thou shalt be
(Thine eyes then clear'd by Eden's euphrasy)
Within the sight and touch of him, who told
The tale our babes now read; Ulysses old
Ploughing with homeward keel romantic seas;
Whether, indeed, blind Melesigines
Greet thee, or bards to whom alike belongs
That hoar abstraction of Troy's scatter'd songs;
And thou shalt hail that prophet of his kind,
Shakspeare, the man of multitudinous mind;
94
And she, to thee first lovely and first fair, ,
Thy Alice, she, thy Alice, shall be there;
A woman still, though pure from mortal leaven,
And warm as love, though blushing all of heaven.
95
S O N N E T.
WINTER’s last snow is gone; and as I pass
These hedge-rows, where in gems on every spray
The sprinkled verdure hangs, and, midst sloped grass,
The star-like primrose clusters on my way,
The quicken'd sense inhales the season's power;
The deep convictions, that must ever be,
Yield to the soothings of the balmy hour,
That, for the moment, steals from memory
Its nutriment of poison. O most sweet
Illusion that the spirit in the breast
Should, for that moment, from itself retreat
To outward pleasantness, and be at rest'
That leaf and flower should thus, by stealth, have wrought,
Forgetfulness and peace—in spite of thought !
96
EPISTLE TO JOHN CLARE.
So loth, friend John to quit the town
'Twas in the dales thou won'st renown;
I would not, John for half-a-crown
Have left thee there ; *
Taking my lonely journey down
To rural air.
The pavement flat of endless street
Is all unsuited to thy feet;
The fog-wet smoke is all unmeet
For such as thou;
Who thought'st the meadow-verdure sweet,
But think'st not now.
“Time's hoarse unfeather'd nightingales”
Inspire not like the birds of vales;
97
I know their haunt in river-dales
On many a tree,
And they reserve their sweetest tales,
John Clare for thee.
I would not have thee come, to sing
Long odes to that eternal spring;
On which young bards their changes ring,
With buds and flowers:
I look for many a better thing,
Than brooks and bowers.
'Tis true thou paintest to the eye
The straw-thatch'd roof, with elm-trees nigh;
But thou hast wisdom to descry
What lurks below ;
The springing tear, the melting sigh,
The cheek’s heart-glow.
The poets all, alive and dead,
Up ! Clare—and drive them from thy head;
Forget whatever thou hast read
Of phrase or rhyme;
H
98
For he must lead and not be led,
Who lives through time.
What thou hast been the world may see,
But guess not what thou still may’st be;
Some in thy lines a Goldsmith see,
Or Dyer’s tone;
They praise thy worst; the best of thee
Is still unknown.
Some grievously suspect thee, Clare
They want to know thy form of prayer;
Thou dost not cant, and so they stare,
And hint free-thinking;
They bid thee of the devil beware,
And vote thee sinking.
With smile sedate and patient eye,
Thou mark'st the zealots pass thee by ;
To rave, and raise a hue and cry
Against each other;
Thou seest a father up on high,
In man a brother.
99
I would not have a mind like thine,
Its artless childhood tastes resign,
Jostle in mobs, or sup and dine
Its powers away;
And after noisy pleasures pine,
Some distant day.
And John I though you may mildly scoff,
That curst, confounded, church-yard cough
Gives pretty plain advice—be off!
While yet you can ;
It is not time yet, John to doff
Your outward man.
Drugs —can the balm of Gilead yield
Health, like the cowslip-yellow'd field
Come, sail down Avon, and be heal’d,
Thou cockney, Clare;
My recipe is soon reveal’d,—
Sun, sea, and air.
What glue has fasten’d thus thy brains
To kennel odours and brick lanes 2
100
Or is it intellect detains 2 -
For 'faith I’ll own,
The provinces must take some pains
To match the town.
Does (5) Agnus fling his crotchets wild,
“In wit a man,” in heart a child
Has (6) Lepus' sense thine ear beguiled
With easy strain
Or hast thou nodded blithe, and smiled
At (7).Janus' vein
Does (8) Nalla, that mild giant, bow
His dark and melancholy brow
Or are his lips distending now
With roaring glee;
That tells the heart is in a glow,
The spirit free ?
Or does the (9) opium-eater quell
Thy wondering sprite with witching spell?
Read'st thou the dreams of murkiest hell
In that mild mien
10]
Or dost thou doubt, (yet fear to tell)
Such ere have been 2
And while around the board the wine
Lights up the glancing eye-ball's shine,
Seest thou in elbow'd thought recline
The poet true, (10)
Who in Colonna seems divine
To me and you ?
But Clare the birds will soon be flown ;
Our Cambridge wit resumes his gown;
Our English Petrarch (11) trundles down
To Devon's valley;
Why, when our MAGA's out of town,
Stand shilly-shally
The table-talk of London still
Shall serve for chat by rock and rill;
And you again may have your fill
Of season'd mirth ;
But not if spade your chamber drill
Six feet in earth.
102
Come then; thou never saw'st an oak
Much bigger than a waggon-spoke :
Thou only could'st the muse invoke
On treeless fen;
Then come, and aim a higher stroke,
My man of men'
The wheel and oar by gurgling steam
Shall waft thee down the wood-brow’d stream,
And the red channel's broadening gleam
Dilate thy gaze;
And thou shalt conjure up a theme
For future lays.
And thou shalt have a jocund cup,
To wind thy spirits gently up,
A stoop of hock or claret sup
Once in a way;
And we’ll take notes from Mistress Gupp (12)
That same glad day.
And (13) Rip Van Winkel shall awake
From his loved idlesse for thy sake;
103
In earnest stretch himself, and take
Pallet on thumb;
Nor now his brains for subjects rake,
John Clare is come.
His touch will, hue by hue, combine
The thoughtful eyes that steady shine,
The temples of Shaksperian line,
The quiet smile ;
The sense and shrewdness which are thine,
Withouten guile.
104
THE APATHY OF NATURE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF CHAENEDOLLſ.
SHE is gone, and her life is past away
In the blooming morn of her youthful day;
To whom all hearts had their homage given,
A lady rich in the gifts of heaven.
She is gone; and youth, which had seem'd to spread
A shield of safety around her head;
And riches, and beauty, and children's charms
Could not keep her from death's relentless arms.
Ah! and is this so short-lived bloom
A young and a tender mother's doom *
And is the loss to nature so light,
That nothing is changed where we turn the sight?,
105
I look, as before, on the garden bowers,
And see them gemm'd with the self-same flowers;
As when, on that eve of summer dews,
Her eye was bent on their delicate hues.
The song-birds with pure harmonious thrill
From the copses and arbours are warbling still;
And the tulip-tree flaunts to the breath of May
The delicious cones of its flowering spray.
'Tis thus, then, that nature will ever remain,
Unfeeling and cold to human pain;
She is callous to grief; nor sees, nor hears,
Nor pities our death, nor is touch'd with tears.
What to her is the youthful urn ?
That genius and beauty have no return ?
She leans on the laws of a fate austere,
And runs for ever her fix’d career.
106
L IN E S
WRITTEN ON A VERNAL DAY, DURING CONFINEMENT FROM
INDISPOSITION.
Go happy boys' on whose white foreheads time
Ploughs not the furrowing lines of human care;
The season, like yourselves, is in its prime,
Pure as your spirits breathes th’ elastic air.
While languor my reluctant limbs enchains,
Race with the bounding lambs, more blithethan they;
Listen the rustling hedge-bird's twitter'd strains,
And wreathe your caps with cowslip and with may.
Go and enjoy the gifts our Father sends;
And, while ye sit by rock, or bank, or tree,
Think, amidst books, those ever-constant friends,
Time passes not uncheerily with me.
107
The same kind spirit, felt, amidst the wood,
In the wild violet's breath, or woodbine shade,
Is present with me in my solitude,
Soothing the void your absence else had made.
He, though my wonted footsteps may not roam
With you the hawthorn lanes and mosses green,
Shall bring you back to my sequester'd home,
To tell the pleasant wonders ye have seen.
Hope too, his gift, is whispering of the day,
When animating health shall set me free;
When, where ye now are straying, I shall stray,
Climb to your cave, or sit beneath your tree:
And we shall bless that same Paternal Power,
Who, still benignant, bids us smile or grieve;
With wise privations heightens rapture's hour,
And never leaves us, though ourselves we leave.
108
A FATHER'S REVERIE.
Ov apri 6a)\\ovr’ mpww caupo 8tov
Eöpsibab' Atong. EIe' ET' EN ZQoIXIN HN.
EvXn Harmv ap' a £ev', mēs to sopa
IIepevyev, ov yap ovaror’ stoopet vsovº
Ts6 unk’ o. An raxis a traoxovo' ou ‘ya.00t.
Porson.
Him blooming just in the spring-time of life
The grave cut off. “Would heaven that he were yet
Among the living !”—thou in vain, O friend 1
Utterest this prayer; his face is seen no more :
For no—where shalt thou look upon the youth :
Yea—he is dead : the good the soonest suffer.
NOT seldom, when my realizing glance,
In eagerness of its presagings, fix’d
The unseen future, have I felt a glow
As of predestined joy, beholding him
In whom again I lived, child of my youth.
109
“He shall not midst the smoke of cities draw
Polluted breath, but yon dilated heaven
Wrap every sense in balm; his foot shall climb
The mountain, and shall print the ocean shore;
His ear shall drink the melody of birds
And flocks; of winds, and aills, and whispering boughs;
His eye shall gaze the sunset's ruddy light,
And grow enamour'd of the gliding moon;
And thus to him shall solitude become
A season of all pleasantness; and thoughts
Of virtue steal through beauty on his heart;
And he shall bear within himself a spell
To soothe each grief, and every bliss refine;
A nameless and inseparable charm
Of lonely joy.”
*-
I spoke and it was so;
. The boy grew tall in stature, and his heart
Was lapped in nature's solitudes; the brooks,
That bubbling crept within their pebbly banks,
Became his wonted music : plants and flowers,
And all glad forms of life, were to his thoughts
Impulse and food.
110
The flocks and birds send forth
Their natural sounds of life, but not for him :
The thicket-flowers he loved bloom lavishly
By the deserted brook: would he were there!
Vain wish ' That youth must never more be seen
Among the living : and if thou shouldst seek
The gentle boy, with whom he words exchanged
Of innocent parley, thou must tread the same
Low path, that leads to one untimely grave.
1 11
R O B R O Y.
IN thy limbs is the vigour of motion,
In thy brown beaming eye there is joy;
Thy spring like a surge of the ocean,
And thy name well befits thee, Rob Roy /
Fond vassall that lovest to be near me,
Still watch for my step with delight;
Bold sentinel ! still let me hear thee,
When thy cry breaks the silence of night.
Though the harsh or the timid may chide thee,
Or shrink from thy rudeness of glee ;
Pass thou on, tried and trusted, beside me,
Or rest thy kind head on my knee.
In thy honest expression of feature
Thy Maker's wise goodness I scan ;
Thou generous and faithful meek creature
Thou shame and thou pattern of man!
II 2
Let us forth midst the heaths and the grasses,
Where the ground-skimming bird mocks thy speed;
Where the butterfly tauntingly passes
With meteor wing o'er the mead;
Where the load of existence is lighter,
Midst dales where I wander alone;
And the azure of heaven shines brighter,
As the rapture of grief is my own.
My dog! how sedately thou gazest
While pensive I sit by the tree;
Thou know'st not the dream that thou raisest,
The spell that is resting on thee!
Thy master—poor friendl was another;
And thou wert a gift and a love;
A suckling, that clung to its mother,
And at parting with sorrow he strove.
He stoop’d—yet I see him—to bless thee,
And fondled and held on his breast;
He never return'd to caress thee—
His hope, thou art now his bequest.
A seal on thy forehead thou bearest,
Where no gaze of the stranger may dwell;
His lip's gentle pressure thou wearest,
The kiss of his hail and farewell:
113
And my eyes, that are wistfully filling,
Through their mist glance the boy that is gone;
And a voice through my heart's pulse is thrilling,
As shoutingly cheering thee on.
In vain—for he mark’d not thy growing;
That spirit-of kindness is still;
The breeze o'er the vallies is blowing,
But waſts not his shout from the hill.
Fond brute 1 how unconscious thou gazest,
As pensive I sit by the tree;
Thou know'st not the dream that thou raisest,
The spell that is resting on thee!
114
RECOLLECTIONS
ON THE BAN KS OF THE THAMES.
ONCE more I feel thy gale upon my cheek
O Thames l—a little moment let me rest
Here, on this grassy bank; beneath these elms
Whose high boughs murmur with the leafy sound
That soothed me when a boy; when, truant-like,
Of the dull chime that summon'd me afar
Nought heeding, by the river-wave I lay
Enamour'd of the liberty of thought.
As yon grey turrets rest in trembling shade
On thy transparent depth, the years long past
Rise with that same distinctness; when, averse
From sport, I wander'd on thy loneliest banks,
Where not a sound disturb’d the quiet noon,
115
But such as fitly blends with silentness;
The whispering sedge, the grasshopper's faint chirp,
Or cuckoo's cry; and not a human trace,
Unless some hamlet spire o’ertopp'd the wood,
Spake to the sight of earth's inhabiters:
Thus wearing out the solitary hours
In happy day-dreams; visions that are gone
With the light bubbles eddying in thy stream.
But heavier loss has chanced : a solitude
Is in thy waters, swept by glancing oars,
And peopled by the wheeling insect tribes
That skim thy whirlpool surface: in thy leaves
Hush’d sounds, that breathe a void into the heart;
And through thy branching alleys and towered meads
Wanders the ghost of manhood’s buried hope.
For they have stood beside me on these banks
Who gave prolong’d existence, and with me
Trod every verdant nook I wont to tread,
When, like their own, my careless locks flow'd free
On the clear forehead; they have stood with me
Whose recollected presence blots the heaven
Glass'd in thy azured wave. Their way has lain
116
By other waters; their delighted eyes
Shall trace thy smooth meandering flight no more.
O thou fair river ! flowing calm and full
Midst thy green islets, while the poised swan broods
O'er his clear shadow in thy crystal depth,
The form, that lingers on thy banks, is changed :
Thou rollest onward still thy placid tide;
Thou wear'st no semblance of the human brow:
Thou art the same !—unchangeable, serene,
Majestic in the beauty of thy strength;
Impassive to the stroke that levels minds;
The change that mars the destiny of man!
117
IL FRAC O M B E.
STRETCH'D on the dizzy crag I mark
Beneath me float the heaving surge,
That, tossing onward, blue and dark,
With flash of foam o'erleaps the verge;
Or from some shore-cliff's weedy cave
Watch the shrill cormorant screaming sail;
Or catch, by gleams, the azure wave
From the wood-vista of the vale.
Thy craggy coves, O Ilfracombe'
The outline of thy ridgy hills,
Thy ash-tree dell's sun-quivering gloom,
And pebbled dash of viewless rills;
That inland glade, that gleamy shore,
Are now, as they have ever been;
Why do I feel their joy no more ?
Whence is the void that aches within :
118
Two blooming forms to memory rise,
And up the grassy dale-path glide ;
And glancing drops bedim mine eyes,
To see them lingering at my side.
Calm evening sheds its yellow gleam—-
Soft voices thrill the murmuring air—
'Tis gone !—a shade—a hovering dream —
The charm is broke that bound me there.
119
WRITTE N AT B R U S S E L S, 1827.
WALLEY of cliffs' though not my foot ascends
Thy rock-path’s mazy sweep, thou yet art nigh;
Where all around a new horizon bends,
And towers are sparkling in a foreign sky:
Where in the depth of Soigny's forest tall,
The high-branch'd beeches rear their long arcade,
And, as the glimmerings of the sun-beam fall,
In column'd shadows stretch across the glade:
Where the lone forester, in distance lost,
Down the deep vista lessens from mine eye;
Or burthen’d wood-girl has the pathway crost,
And with a strange-tongued greeting past me by.
120
For as I press the roots with moss o'ergrown,
Home objects, native scenes fast thronging fill
My inward vision, and a spell is thrown,
Like lulling slumber, on my passive will.
An ocean fragrance freshens in the gale,
And Avon, with full waters, winds before,
Like broad Penéus, through the bowery vale
Of Tempe, sweeping round his rampart shore.
I mark the turret over-top the wood,
Whose boughs the sun-rise tips with burnish’d glow:
And the bare upland heath, where oft I stood,
Watching the sails that flitted far below.
I view that loftiest crag, by time decay’d,
Trembling beneath the tide in umber'd gleams;
And the pale misty hills that bluely fade,
Where the two rivers blend their sea-tinged streams.
I gaze and heave th’ involuntary sigh;
Not that in pensive absence I repine;
But that the scene, which gladdens many an eye,
In melancholy grandeur glooms on mine.
121
Yes—on those banks, a thoughtless, wandering child
I learn'd the bliss which solitude bestows;
Yes—there in manhood, murm'ring fancies wild,
Forgot this beauteous earth was sown with woes.
Yet sea, rock, river witness to the time
When childhood's joy-flush’d hopes were dimm'd
and dead;
When manhood's brow was blasted in its prime,
And sorrow sleepless on its vitals fed.
Those wavy, cloud-like hills to other eyes
Have skirted the wan. Severn's silver line;
Those heath-topt crags, o'er Avon's bed that rise,
Bear the light prints of other feet than mine.
They mix with dim emotions unreveal’d,
With haunting shadows of long-vanish’d years;
Joys flowing deep as from a fountain seal’d,
And sacred thoughts that steep themselves in tears.
122
E L E G Y
O N M Y MOT H E R.
A shadow on my spirit fell,
When my hush'd footstep from thee pass'd ;
And sad to me thy mild farewell,
To me, who feared it was thy last;
And, when I saw thee next, a veil
Was drawn upon thy features pale.
They strewed thee, in thy narrow bed,
With roses from thy own loved bowers;
In melting anguish memory fled
Back to thy valued rural hours;
And saw thee, gentle, gliding round,
Where all to thee was Eden ground.
123
The God, whose presence met thee there,
Was with thee in thy slow decays;
He answer'd to her dying prayer,
Whose life had been a hymn of praise;
Thy God was nigh—thy shepherd God—
With comfort of his staff and rod,
I lay thee where the loved are laid—
Rest—till their change and thine shall come;
A light shall pierce that sullen shade,
A voice shall burst that rocky tomb ;
The temple reels—the sleep is ended—
The dead are gone—the pure ascended !
124
S ABBATH MU S IN G.S.
IT is the sabbath morn. The landscape sleeps
Calm in the sun; and silent are the hills
And vallies, and the blue serene of air.
The sea scarce trembles to the rippling breeze,
Bright in tranquillity. The vanish’d lark
Breaks faint the silence, and disturbs it not.
Congenial is this quiet: 'tis the hush
Of nature's earliest sabbath, when the glance
Of love creative beam’d upon a world
Of peace and beauty, and beheld it good.
O native isle beloved' by rounding waves
Bosom'd remote, and hallow'd from the world !
The spirit meek of sanctity now walks
Thy flowery meadows, and thy thickets green.
125
I love thy pious reverence of the day;
It whispers hope; it breathes the secret pledge
Of preservation, when earth's kingdoms fall.
I love thy pure and fervid rite: the prayer
Utter'd with full assent, in unction steep’d
Of apostolic ages, and the psalm,
Not droned by monks in formal dissonance,
But chanted from the pure seraphic lips
Of Christian women, harmonies of heaven
Mingled in earthly temples. Yet there are
Who love thee not : there are who deem thy zeal
A melancholy phrenzy, and discern
In this thy cheerful holiness a gloom
Sullen and sad. There is no sullen gloom
O England 1 in thy sabbaths. Let them boast
The freedom, that enslaves them, in those climes
Where the great false apostle, on whose brow
Is written “Mystery,” with purple clothed,
Sits in the temple of God. They, sensual, work
The strong delusion of their blasphemy;
And in the Father Spirit's house of prayer
Act with idolatrous pomp their darkening spells:
Muttering their lifeless ritual, midst the clouds
126
Of frankincense, day-dimming lights, that shone
In heathen temples, and the pictured saints,
Each glimmering in his niche to votive lamps;
And with their magic sprinkling cleansing sin,
Their false Bethesda's pool, they leave their Gods
Within the fane, where dwell their molten forms,
And make the day of him they feign to serve
A day of carnival : the task of beads,
And tapers, and of image-bowing fear -
In the dark nooks of idols, wood or stone,
Fulfill'd, the world re-welcomed, and th' absolved
Sent fresh to buy the wares of vanity,
And lightly traffic in the mart of sin.
Let such deride thee; leave them to their sports
And profanations; leave them till the dawn,
Shining to perfect dāy, shall usher in
The brightness of his coming : hold thou on,
Though kings of the earth take counsel, and the scribe,
The wise and the disputer of the world
Rage in their impotent imaginings.
Hail scene of beauty scene of sabbath calm
Thou greenest earth ! thou blue and boundless heaven
127
Thou sea, reposing like a stilly lake
Hail ye, that blend your silence with the soul!
Around, the unimaginable God
Moves, visible to faith ; but unconfused
With these, the works and wonders of his hand.
These but denote his presence; they are his,
But not himself: the veil before his throne,
The symbol and the shadow of th’ unseen.
He sojourns not in clouds; nor is the light
His essence; mingled with the common mass
Of elements, as ancient sages dream'd ;
God and his creatures one. Beyond the scope
Of sense, the incommunicable Mind
Dwelleth ; and they, who, with corporeal eye,
Adoring nature's beauteous forms, discern
Intelligence in colours and in shades;
In sunlight and the glimmer of the moon;
Who deem their worship holy, when they hear
A God in empty winds, and in the sounds
Of waters, they have raised an altar up
To their own idol of material things;
They in the temple of the Deity
128
See but the temple: these, indeed, are his,
But not HIMSELF: they perish, and he lives.
Away from us these mystic vanities,
This heathen's wisdom and this poet's creed;
Away from us the morbid sympathy
That blends itself with rocks and trees; that stoops
To fellowship with brutes; that finds a soul
In every bird that flits along the sky,
A life in every leaf and every flower.
Be thine the adoration; thine the praise,
And love, and wonder, omnipresent ONE |
And be thy sabbath holy to thyself!
NOTES.
(4) Page 85, line 5. Ingenious men have endeavoured to re-
vive the controversy on the genuine claims of Rowley; although it
might have been thought,
Haec certamina tanta
Pulveris exigui jactu compressa quiescunt.
{
They seem, chiefly, to rely on certain particulars, historic or local,
the evidence of which, whether afforded by a church-register or an
unmasked ancient building, has come to light since Chatterton’s
death; they accordingly jump to the conclusion that he could not
have known the facts, and that Rowley is genuine. Now there
are many unaccountable circumstances, occurring daily in com-
mon experience, which appear mysterious till explained; and when
explained, are perfectly simple. If we do not know how, or
whence, or where, he obtained his knowledge, it does not follow
R
130
that he may not have obtained it. Their weakest point is, that the
poems published in Chatterton’s own name are wretched trash; con-
sequently, he could not be the author of Rowley ; and they chiefly
rely on a love-poem to Miss Hoyland, written for bread in a catch-
penny magazine. The assumption of the quantum of merit or
demerit is unwarranted in its extent, and the reasoning inconse-
quent : a man who has a favourite bent of composition does not so
readily excel in another, especially when he scribbles for a dinner.
Chatterton felt nothing and knew nothing of “la belle passion.”
The vulgarisms of style and slips of grammar were rather common
to the doggerel practice of the day, then peculiar to himself. But
it is a mere pretence that all his own pieces are contemptible. So
far from it, no writer of satire in his day came so near Dryden in
ease and force. There is a MS. satire in existence on local topics,
transcribed in his own hand, but too indelicate to see the light,
which would place the point beyond dispute. Warton transposed
one of Chatterton's poems into the Rowleian orthography, (mark
—he had no occasion to alter the cadence—) and it reads quite
undistinguishably from one of Rowley.
Jacob Bryant thought he settled the question by one quotation
from the battle of Hastings.
Could'st thou not tell most famed After la goure,
How in the battle it would with thee fare 2–
(Observe the cadence.)
131
He says that Chatterton, plainly, could not read the MS., for
that the sense is pointless unless we read
Could'st thou not tell most famed Asterlagoure.
I have no doubt it was first so written, and written so by Chatter-
ton. But what is the fact? Why that Asterlagoure does not mean
an astrologer, but an astrolabe. The matter is as plain as a finger-
post. Chatterton made the discovery just in time, but too late to
substitute a word of similar form and meaning, or despaired of
finding one: he therefore, in hasty alarm at the chance of detec-
tion, sacrificed his sentiment to his security, and divided the word
into what he thought might pass as a proper name; and such a
Ilaſſle
As would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.
The last triumphant argument, the Io Paºan of the controversy,
I approach with trembling: Chatterton knew nothing of Latin, yet
Rowley quoted it freely; that is, three times: and the identical
lines are found in one of the books noted in Chatterton’s list of the
books which he had read *
Chatterton's discovery of an ancient work, lost for ages, was
preceded by Ossian and the Castle of Otranto. Before there was
any talk of the papers in Redcliff church, he had, by the discovery
of similar old documents, unseen by and unknown to any one else,
practised on the credulity of his native city. The discovery was
132
always singularly well-timed: on the opening of the new bridge, he
lighted on an ancient MS. detailing the ceremony at the opening
of the old one. When Walpole was employed on his “Lives of the
Painters,” he started another ancient MS., containing a catalogue
of unheard-of painters who had flourished at Bristol. He was par-
ticularly fortunate in unkennelling old genealogies, that had lain
buried in black letter, and heraldic quarterings of individuals, who
never before knew they had any : and after this success (though he
failed with Walpole, whom the world abused because he did not
chuse to be imposed upon) he stumbled on the muniment chest in
Redcliff tower: where there certainly were some parchments, that
had been used by his father in covering the boys’ copy-books in
Colston’s charity school, and which he easily persuaded others to
believe contained portions of Rowley's poems: some being per-
suaded that they had actually read them verbatim, although they
were quite incapable of decyphering the character, and although
they never thought of it till they were told so. The papers, abund-
ant as they were, and scattered so lavishly on the desks of the
charity boys, never made their appearance but singly and at long
intervals. No one pretends he ever saw them collected; no one
can see them now; for one or two short pieces are all that are
within tangible reach; and we are requested to take for granted,
that the little bits of paper found strewed over the floor in the room
where Chatterton unhappily destroyed himself, were the genuine
Rowley parchments, illuminated, as one individual only imagined,
or thought he imagined that he had seen them, with the heads of
133
kings and popes an evidence of ancient art, which Chatterton,
who positively asserted to the last that the pieces were ancient and
was most anxious in having it so believed, cautiously withheld from
public gaze, together with the mass of the parchments themselves |
Of all MS. that ever slept for centuries in a chest, these, when the
slow obstetric labour of each was successively, and at considerable
intervening periods, accomplished, (though they might all have been
produced at once in the twinkling of an eye, if they were produci-
ble) were of the oddest size and shape. They answered, when fitted
and compared, to the average square space left at the bottom of old
deeds in the chests with many locks of a conveyancer's office,
which chests seem to have contained the embryo material of this
talisman of Oromanes. Further, the breaks at the end of such
lines, as did not reach the margin, were filled up with a little flou–
rish of the pen, which, by an odd coincidence, happens to be the
same now technically used by attorneys’ clerks | Can it not be
demonstrated, that the monk of the age of Henry the sixth, had
served his time at the desk of a notary The Rowley papers con-
tain poetry, heraldry, theology. The catalogue of books read by
Chatterton, to the number of sixty, recorded in his own hand-
writing, comprize Chaucer, with Spegt’s glossary, heraldry, old
divinity. Lastly, my old master the late Rev. Samuel Seyer,
(quando ullum invenient paren :) a zealous Rowleian, confessed to
me, that, during the necessary researches into the ground-plan and
architecture of Bristol Castle, to be made available in his learned
and accurate “Memoirs Historical and Topographical,” he was both
134
astonished and mortified to find that Rowley’s drawings of “Bris-
towe Castle” were wholly fantastical; and that he quite mistook
and misrepresented the ichnography of a building with every part
of which he must have been familiarly acquainted
Page 96. Key to the Epistle to Clare.
(5) Page 100, line 5. Agnus. Charles Lamb.
(6) Page 100, line 7. Lepus. Julius Hare, author of “Guesses
at Truth.”
(7) Page 100, line 10. Janus. The writer in the London Ma-
gazine who signed himself Janus Weathercock.
(8) Page 100, line 11. Nalla. Allan Cunningham.
(9) Page 100, line 17. Opium-eater. De Quincy, author of
“The Confessions of an English Opium-eater.”
(10) Page 101, line 6. The poet true. The writer who assumes
the name of Barry Cornwall.
(11) Page 101, line 11. The Rev. Mr. Strong, translator of
Italian sonnets.
(12) Page 102, line 17. A lady immortalised by her invention
to keep muffins hot on the lid of the tea-urn.
(13) Page 102, line 19. Rip Van Winkel. E. W. Rippingille,
painter of “the Country Post Office,” “the Portrait of Bird,” &c.
THE BROTHER.S.
Žin 3Elegg.
When the silent leaves are still
In the shadow of the hill,
Shall my soul be upon thine
With a power and with a sign.
ByRoN's Manfred.
TO * * * * *.
“THE meed of some melodious tear,”—so spoke
The bard who lay by inspiration's oak;
So speaks the voice within—the love that brings
Vain tribute—sweet, yet empty offerings;
Perchance a frail memorial—shedding bloom
Of short-lived odour on a nameless tomb.
O could I, like that priest of nature's truth,
Bid “th’ angel homeward look and melt with ruth;”
He wakes no strain which angels stoop to hear,
Whose reed of hope has pierced him like a spear;
From whom the glory of his days is fled,
And all within is cold and dark and dead;—
A little pain—a little suffering yet—
And earth shall cover and the world forget!
138
But not in vain the faltering harp is strung
For hearts, like his, with hopeless anguish wrung;
Whose earthly heaven, like his, is overcast,
Whose future darkens in the clouded past;
Hearts sickening wan in life's meridian ray,
And wistful gazing towards their setting day.
Yes—Heaven has bound us as with brethren's ties
And made our sorrows drop from others’ eyes;
And he, that utters what his grief has known,
Feels that he mourns, but not, as once, alone;
And earth has yet a balm—how little all
To lull the lingering pangs of that brief funeral l—
The sympathy of souls: alas ! ev'n thine
Cannot restore, nor is there help in mine.
Yet would I bring what solace still is left
For minds afflicted, humbled, scourged, bereft;
That only solace which the wandering eye
Can find to fix on, ere it close and die.
When life was in its spring and fancy free,
Its lays, the lays of love, were breathed to thee!
139
When, as in vision, hover'd on my sight
Th’ elastic step and glance that swam in light;
And the live rose, that deck'd thy virgin prime,
Glow'd on thy cheek, as though it mock’d at time.
And now—that hope and joy are seen to fade
Like stars dim-gliding till they mix with shade;
Now—that thy cheek has sorrow’s canker proved—
When thus by sadness changed, ahl more beloved'
Now—pale and leaning o'er a weed-strewn herse,
I call upon thee with a mourning verse !
I call upon thee by the pledges spared
To soothe the loss, that may not be repair’d;
By him the winning babe, the heaven-sent boy,
A frantic hope, a terror, and a joy;
By those in whom expression's casual ray
Does oft the loved lost lineament betray;
From whose fair eyes remember'd glances dart,
Whose brows, whose voice, whose lips convulse the heart;
Those fragile beings, rudely disentwined
From the fall’n props whereon their love reclined;
And who on thee their tendril softness fling,
Reft as thou art, to thee, deserted, cling;
140
By that their tender weakness, strong to plead,
By those their meeker griefs that silent bleed;
By the soft drops that spoke their mute distress,
Their early taste of human bitterness;
By all they witness to a mother's care,
By thy firm faith, thy piety of prayer —
I call upon thee by his name, who, blest
With Christian hope, is enter'd in his rest;
Who, meek beneath adversity's stern rod,
Still patient held his trust, his love of God;—
That father's accents whispering from the dust—
I call upon thee for thy love and trust
What calms the tumult; what allays the loss
What stills thy sorrowing, thy despair –the cross
The cross—that brazen serpent, raised to save—
That key which opes the portal of the grave;
To that, O lone one ! raise thy tearless eye,
Symbol and gate of immortality:
From whose unclouded top the steps ascend,
Like Israel's ladder, to thy God and Friend :
Where they, for whom thy pillow sleepless lies,
Descend and re-ascend before thine eyes;
141
And beckon to that Eden of the blest
Where souls departed in expectance rest.
Believe that angels stay the thrilling tear
For those they loved, for those who loved them here :
Think that to those (14) pure souls ev'n now are given
(15) Shadowings of bliss and gleams of future heaven.
Not in th’ obstruction cold of mortal clay
Deem that they sleep till earth shall pass away;
But lift ev'n now their intellectual eyes
Midst visions of the mediate Paradise:
See him whose bruised heel crush’d death's wormy stings,
And listen high, unutterable things.
Bethink thee, for thou know'st—some chequering
years
Shall sweep, like shadows, o'er thy path of tears;
(16) When thou shalt every mortal pang resign,
And their exulting spirits spring to thine !
142
THE BROTHER. S.
A N E L E G Y.
(17) AGAIN 1–yet once again—Oh winter's wind
I hear thee; as the cloudy rack fleets by,
And the bare trees with crashing boughs aloft
Rock and re-echo, and at times are hush'd :
I commune with my spirit and am still.
Is the gust raging round the shores I left
So suddenly * and does its angry breath
Now work and chafe with the quick-heaving surge,
That foams and gurgles round those weedy rocks,
Or clangs in dash’d commotion ? Lies there now
A tremulous line of level light above
The boiling sea, as when I last beheld
Its waters rolling in their strength, and stood
On the high headland in my mute despair :
143
A respite—and an interval of tears—
My soul that ached with that vacuity,
That pressure of life's hopelessness, the sense
Of the drear present and the future dim
And anxious—trod the vista of the past:
A vision and the picture of a dream
Lay on mine eye and heart: those eyes must close,
That heart be still, or ere they pass away.
I stood upon a lawn whose greensward spread
Smooth-levell’d by the scythe ; two mulberry trees
Beyond it stretch'd their old and foliaged arms;
Th’ acacia quiver'd in the wind : the thick
And deep-leaved laurel darken'd the recess
Of massive buttresses; the mansion's walls,
Grey in antiquity, were tapestried o'er
With the fig's downy leaves, and roses climb'd
Clust'ring around the casements’ gothic panes.
With terraces and verdant slopes, where pines
Arch'd their plumed boughs, and fruits espalier-train’d
Were mix’d with myrtles and with arbute-trees,
The scene behind look’d silvan: higher rose
The bounding hill, whose turfy paths were track'd
144
Up the bare herbage, gnarl'd with scatter'd crags
And topt with straggling firs or chestnuts broad;
A sweet yet solemn landscape, for it spoke
Of sacred home. Beside me on the lawn
One sate, who should be master of these walks,
And that grey mansion, and those home-green nooks
Of silvan tracery, and whose heart was framed
To sympathise with all that flourish'd there.
The locks were crisp'd upon his head; his lip
Form'd like a rose-bud, and his forehead snow :
His garb a summer mantle; and he held
A book upon his knees, and seem'd to bend
His thoughts on what the father-teacher told :
But still his eye would wander from the page
To where the holly glisten’d in the sun,
Or some streak'd bird had bent the rustling bough
With fluttering motion: for his heart was link'd
To nature, and his fancy fed itself
With sights and sounds beneath the open sky:
It then was so, and in his after-years:
I see him in his summer-dress the same,
With that loved, listless eye, till in my tears
I lose him, and the scene is changed and gone.
145
That boy outgrew his infant pupillage,
And was himself the teacher of a child
Who learn'd from him what he had learn'd, and coped
With that his young instructor, whom he loved,
Beloved in turn; they conn'd th’ allotted leaves
Together, in their own paternal home,
And shared alike each other's meadow sports,
And ramblings in the valleys: chiefly there
Where the cragg'd dale o'erhangs the Avon side,
And maythorns blossom on the midway steep,
Their steps were found; their half-bower'd heads were
Seen
Above the thicket, while the straggling flock
Grazed near them, by their presence undisturbed;
Nor seldom with a troop of youthful friends
They roam'd the heath; and still the elder-born,
With his light stripling figure, stands, as late,
Before me, with a satchel on his arm,
And a tall leafless sapling in his hand.
Together, with their father's guiding aid,
They clave the waters, while the sun rode high,
And learn'd to breast the blue sea's billowy swell
L
146
Fearless, and with a passion sought the shore
Floating, as still they float before mine eyes,
Upon the sapphire bosom of the deep,
With face upturn'd to heaven, or plunging free,
Like dolphins in their play, beneath the wave
That closed above them, and the circling rocks
Rang with their joyous voices.—"Twas the will
Of God:—their art of safety was their snare:
And he, that look’d with trusting gladness on,
Lived to lament this omen of their joy.
My heart is drown'd in softness, as again
I see, I feel, them present; their known looks
And loved familiar shapes; where’er I wend,
In daylight, or the gloom of fading eve,
Through peopled marts, and streets that thronging sound
With hum of multitudes, and most, oh most !—
Among the hills and hedge-rows, and near brooks
Where sedges dip their verdure, and o'er heaths
Sprinkled with yellow broom, whence far the range
Of azure mountains, like a mist, appears
Beyond the channel'd sea; and when, deep sunk
In sleep’s o'erpowering heaviness, with eyes
147
That, waking inward, view th’ external world,
Its colour'd shadows and its moving forms,
I still am doom'd to see—for ever there—
For ever !—by my side and in my sight
Th’ inseparable phantoms: they attend
My rising up and lying down : pursue
My steps, and flit around me with their bright,
Yet shadowy, presence—angels of the dead
I saw them—and that elder shapely boy,
Tall for his years, and slender as the stem
Of spiring pine; and femininely soft
With silken skin, and smooth and tapering hands,
And lips of rose; the flexile, graceful hair
Waved with light bend, as of a Roman youth;
And the arch'd brows, and lashes lengthening dark:
In the clear eyes beam'd sweet th’ ingenuous mind,
And frank simplicity and girlish love.
Beside him, still beside him, one appear'd
Of lower stature; his young limbs were cast
In somewhat stronger mould : his visage still
Retain'd the rounded form of infancy,
And the vermilion glow’d upon his cheek
148
Type of robuster health: a deeper blue
Was in his eyes: and trains of serious thought,
Manly and calm, would mark his steady glance:
While mirthfulness oft revell'd in his smiles,
As though the heart could not restrain the tide
Of innocent delight, that gush'd at once
In fullness of its joy; and, whether smiles
Play’d on his dimpled mouth, or glancing tears,
Supprest by resolution, dimm’d his eye,
The other smiled or sadden'd : shared in all
His joys or troubles, for their hearts were one
Thus pass'd their lives:—their vernal lives —how
sweet,
And brief as sweet !—inheritors of love,
Playmates of nature, they were fit for heaven.
They saw the gracious Father in his works,
For they would listen to the book of life
With solemn, gladden’d aspect: him they loved
Ev’n in his meanest creatures; reverenced him
In the rook's instinct and the emmet's craft;
The soothed familiar reptile fled them not;
The speckled toad beneath the bramble lay,
149
His bright eye shining like a gem, nor shunn'd
Their footstep ; and the brutal urchin shrank
Rebuked, who, in their presence, sought to harm
One creature that had life. The most opprest
Or scorn'd to them were dearest; nor their mind
Endured the dainty sophistry, that deem'd
“The chamber or refectory” a shrine
Which no intruding worm may violate
But that his life was forfeit ; they had learnt
Another lesson from their gentle hearts;
And what their heart had taught them, no tame fear
Of mocks from the unfeeling, nor the sight
Of bold and base example, could repress;
But, with an Abdiel pride, retorting scorn
Of unintimidated innocence,
They turn'd from the seducer or withstood.
Oh promise early blighted 1 blasted hopes |
Crush'd germs of mortal excellence 1 oh ye
Whom earth could not detain, but heaven required :
Lost friends ! dear, lost companions ! vanish’d feet,
Whose traces are upon the hills and shores,
Pursued, bewept, and linger'd on in vain
150
Follow’d with upward—gazing agony
From the bare mountains into opening clouds—
Oh! found of God, but oh! how lost to me !—
The worldly ear turns from the sickly tale
Of omens: grief alone can feel and know
The mystery of signs, and read in types
And shadows warnings past of woes to come :
Too late interpreted, but, haply, sent
To mark the agency of Providence,
Where the cold sceptic sees the hand of chance:
No interposing God; no chastening scourge
Of sin or fire of trial. Mournful signs
Foretraced th’ unconscious journey to the grave.
Gradual the prospect darken'd; not at once;
For as by stealth the change of home-felt joy
Came on us: there were traces on the wall,
Though yet invisible the hand that wrote.
The mother of those boys felt tumult seize
The sanguine pulse of life; the mind's clear light
Was darken'd for a season, and lone thoughts
Of undefined emotion would obtrude,
151
Seen in the sadness of the troubled eye
That ever fix’d on them. I bore her then
To my ancestral vale : the steep-green ridge
Where the wild strawberry blossom’d, and beneath
The sea-weed mantled on the ledge of rocks
That sparkled in the shore-dash’d surge's foam.
The brothers, too, were there; now blithe they leap'd
On the thyme-flowering turf, and now they paused
In their kind wonder, as they saw the gloom
Upon their mother's brow, and marvell'd much
That the pure life-breeze from th’ Atlantic breathed,
And the sun gleaming in a diamond shower
Upon the rippling waters, fail'd to soothe.
Oh dim presage!—whence rose th'o'ershadowing thought
That fell upon her, when no fear disturb’d
Their happy spirits, and the heaven and earth
In like serenity were glad and calm ?—
Her look had wander'd where the grey church-tower
Peer'd o'er the sea-crag's verdant ridge; there dwelt
With mournful meaning, eloquent yet mute;
Then, quick-averted, turn'd itself on me
And them; her thoughts were dark; their very trace
Has disappear'd; but those two happy boys,
152
Beneath whose steps, all buoyancy and life,
The springy hill-turf quiver'd as they flew,
Rest, side by side, within that grey church-tower.
And whence that nameless restlessness of doubt,
Those nerves still keenly trembling, like the wire
That vibrates to the casement breeze, when sad
Thou satst beloved one ! in the fading light
Of dusk, on Weston's solitary beach
Reluctant while I urged the happy hours
That should await our gather'd little ones
Sporting in health upon the broad sea-sands:
And, with infatuated eager hope,
Press'd the blind prayer, that thy consent may bring
The dear ones whom we left, to share the balm
Of that fresh scene and breathe the vital wave.
Whence that unquiet shock, that troubled fear,
When from our starlight walk the eldest born
Return'd by devious path, outstripping those,
In mirth, who deem'd him following light the cause,
The fear a theme of laughter: yet I turn’d
Beneath the stars that twinkled o'er the hill;
I 53
Up by the craggy dale, now darkling, trod
Our recent homeward path, and hover'd sad
With thrill of some inexplicable dread
Upon the cliff's dark edge, and almost fear'd
Each cavity that cross'd the sea-ward slope;
Yielding in spite of reason and of shame
To what I felt as weakness; what I feel
Was the mysterious foresight of event
Yet shapeless in th’ obscure of destiny,
Soon to evolve the terror of its form.
Till, lone returning, steps of welcoming
Were heard within, and on the threshold met;
And in my tenderest place of memory still
Haunts the dear vision of that fleeted form,
Then lingering anxious on the stair, and swift
In fondness of abash’d preventing love
To rush upon a father's boding heart
And falter out his welcome. Welcome more
He ne'er shall hear: that thou wast seeming lost
Embitters this thy heavy loss indeed;
That thou wast dead and instantly alive
Doth make thee doubly dead: portentous words !
A double loss, a double death was there !
154
The whirl of hurrying thought now bears me on
And the scene shifts its shadows, ere it close
In darkness. I beheld them on the hills
Skirting the channel’d sea; the sky above
One arch of sapphire and the noontide sun
Glittering upon the grey and heapy stones
That bound the Roman camp : the bay beneath
Gemm'd with its beams: the Cambrian hills outstretch'd
In sunny gleam and vapour: the long isle
With its lone light-house and the sister rock
Rearing its steepness from the level sea:
And, underneath the promontory height
Whereon we stood, the stony isthmus, hid
With waters, and the ruinous hut that crests
Thy grassy mount—oh fatal Birnbeck isle ! (18)
I see them on the hills, th’ elastic air
Of early autumn glowing on their cheeks,
And bracing their young limbs: I hear them yet;
They shouted in their joy. Those hills no more
Shall echo with their voices, nor the turf
Spring to the pressure of their bounding feet.
155
Upon the noon, the sabbath noon, that shone
To them the last, and harbinger'd the day
Whose sun should set unheeded by their eyes,
Perchance we wander'd to a place of graves,
Along the green-hill side : myself pass'd on,
But, sudden, stood, surprized in solitude.
Retracing, then, my steps, I saw the boy—
I see him yet—with features rosy-flush'd,
Reaching at berries on the brier-hid wall;
Such oft, in playful tribute, he would bring,
A pastoral offering to his father's hand:
And on the midway hill the elder stoop’d,
Lingering at distance, as he cull'd the plants
With which his bosom and his grasp were fill’d.
They met me at that village church-yard wall,
The limit of their pleasant pilgrimage,
Then, and alas! for ever!—so, with feign'd
Parental chiding of delay, I named
That spot their boundary; the green range beyond
Forbidden; and they smiled upon my threat;
And up the hill, that rose full opposite
The field of graves, we climb'd by rugged stones,
Which, piled by rustic hands, had form'd a stair
156
In the green mountain. They ascended up,
And turning from those heaps of osier'd turf,
Homes of the village dead, they raised their heads
In the hill-sunshine of the breezy heaven.
Unconscious that their way was through the grave;
Their spirits summon’d ; and that mountain stair
The steps that led to angels. Might I thus,
Oh! might I tread on death and climb with them!
Oh pious youths dear infants that last eve
Which spread before your earthly gaze its arch,
Cluster'd with circling stars, beheld you tread
The rural temple's pavement, where ye sate,
And watch'd the preacher's lips that breathed the word
Of life, and heard the simple fervid strain
Of village voices swell their Saviour's praise.
The summons found you there; e'en at the door
God’s angel stood, and beckon'd you away.
Bright rose the sun on that appointed morn:
Along the track which the retiring wave
Had left upon the sands, that elder boy
Danced with his graceful step ; unfadingly
157
His joyous figure in the morning light,
So gliding with timed step along the shore,
Is pictured on my brain. Invited then,
How swift he flew, and with his brother blithe
Return'd, and from the rock launch'd himself free
Amidst the ripple of the ebbing tide l—
Mysterious Providence l—a shade e'en then
Of peril hover'd round us: the recoil
Of that fast-ebbing tide had borne him on :
But at my voice—for I had climb'd the rock,
And, pale and hurried, in the name of God
Implored him turn, he turn'd, and labouring stemm'd
The stubborn ooze, and won his shoreward way,
And panted in mine arms: oh dear embrace
It was our last on earth !—I see him yet,
His supple stripling limbs fresh from the brine;
So soon to welter underneath the wave,
Hurl’d on the distant shores to which he spread
His venturous arms, and in that warping stream
Sunk low the head of him he died to save :
Embracing him in death, as life; while seas
Were now their bed; their slumber still and deep;
Their waking in the paradise of God.
158 -
The meal was spread, and all were present there
But those unheeded boys; for many an hour
They pass'd among the busy fishers' nets;
They loved the artless rustic tongue, and glean'd
Such lore as it could teach: they view’d in all
Their fellow-men, whose love repaid their love.
“The simple William,” such his village name,
They chiefly loved, because by others mock'd.
A doubt came o'er me, as that simple swain
Cross'd by our casement with his passing shade:
His presence had been safety, but our calm
Was greater from the peril of the morn:
And still I sought them not; and still I look’d
For their glad faces through the opening door.
They to that island, where the isthmus stood
Bare from the surges, a high stony ridge,
But at the flood a tossing waste of waves,
Had ventured in their pastime. A fair maid,
Who there had loiter'd, view'd the rising surge,
And warn'd them, as she sought the safer shore:
They linger'd; yet they linger'd, and the tide
Came rushing, as they cross'd that pebbled bank.
159
The youth, who companied the maid, return'd,
And saw them breasting the encroaching surge;
His voice the wind dispersed; they heard him not;
He stretch'd his beckoning arms; they saw him not;
“I fear to venture,” said the younger boy,
(The breeze blew shoreward, baffling the raised voice
That warn’d him, but conveying clear his own;)
And they both turn’d; that isle had been their tower,
Their haven, and the anchor of their life:
And they had reach'd it; but the gather'd store
Of pebbles, weeds, and of the shelly tribe
Dropp'd from the younger's hold: he rashly plunged,
And, drifted midst the eddying current, shriek’d
For succour; and his cry was heard : for he,
Who lived but in his brother, cast aside
Th’ encumbering mantle, and undaunted sprang
Amidst the rushing salt-sea tide, that foam'd
Like a mill-torrent, buffetting the swell
With strenuous arm : he reach'd the struggling boy,
But to retreat were hopeless; bravely still
They strove together. He was far away,
Who should have saved, or drunk with them in death
The bitter flood; th’ o'ermastering current quell’d
160
Their gallant strength, but could not quell their love,
Or part them in their peril: with lock'd arms
They pass'd beneath th' abyss—the waters closed
Wild and with starting hair that generous youth,
Unpractised in the wave, beheld and fled
For aid; but vain was every human help.
The barks lay high upon th’ unflooded shore :
Through that insidious passage twixt the isle
And the near strand alone, the rushing tide
Had yet usurp’d a mastery. Voices, now,
Low-mutter'd voices, throng'd around our calm
And cheerful dwelling: gazing groups appear'd
Mysteriously inquisitive, yet sad,
Before my threshold : as I issued forth,
With the first pang of vague inquietude,
A friend cross'd quick my path, who, anxious, sought
Our dwelling: from his brow, his lifted hands,
Conviction flash’d in horror; and I rush'd
Along the promontory side, and look’d—
Alas! on vacancy!—I saw alone
The sea wide-rolling in its strength; I saw
A long pale line of tremulous light that spread
161
Along the heaving waters—there, ev'n there,
They last were seen, who now were seen no more.
It hovers o'er me like a fearful dream,
That dreadful, slow return; the drear saloon
With its excluded light, and, heard without,
The lifted voice of weeping; stranger forms,
Compassionate and soft, with ministry
Of female offices, and she, who wept
Refusing comfort, since she wept in vain.
Sister of my beloved one ! thou wert sent
To soothe with mingling tears and prayer that hour
Of bitterness. Thy welcoming was sad:
Death cross'd thee on the threshold, and the wail
Of helpless misery met thee from within;
The sword of our distress pierced thy own heart;
Yet was there blessing with thee, on thy lips
Was peace, and gospel light within thine eyes.
Oh babel that art alive, and reckest not
Of those who loved thee and are lost to thee,
By some strange instinct of an infant's love
M
162
Thy footsteps totter'd to the spot, where stood
Thy father in his motionless despair;
And, soft, thy little arms fettering his knees
Aroused the torpor; and a whisper rose
Within my heart, that I should live to praise
The God of consolation. 'Twas his hand
That led thee to me, and that felt embrace
Chid my despondence and assured my soul.
That night, the little chamber where they lay,
Fast by our own, was vacant and was still.
Thou, friend who wert the messenger of wo,
Whose sympathising gesture told the tale
Thou couldst not breathe, art thou too with the dead?
I saw thee in thy ready bark explore
That fatal isle; and many a morn and eve
Thy zealous spirit led thee on the frith,
To search beneath its waters: suddenly
Death struck thee in thy deed of charity:
The green sod lies upon thy breast, and thou
Already art, where I could wish to be.
163
One bred amidst the fields, who knew and loved
Their hopeful childhood, grasp'd the oar and tried
The undiscover'd deeps: the sun went down,
But the warm faith within him bore him on.
The billows were commission'd. They were laid,
Unspotted and unbroken, where the sea
Beats Cambria's clift, that in the sunlight gleams
Full opposite that sea-side tower, which tops
The verdant hill; their grave and monument.
Oh star of Jovel whose ruddy orb, immense
And clear, did flash its lengthen’d arrowy gleams
Through the still air's dark azure, memory hangs
A cloud upon thee: never shalt thou rise,
Oh bright and beauteous planet! but the scene
Of those bare hills, those eve-discolour'd crags,
And the far light-house with its twinkling flame,
Shall crowd upon the mirror of the mind.
They look’d upon thee with their asking gaze,
Bright star of evening! and their thoughts were fix’d
Among those planetary worlds. Art thou
Their habitation ? Can unbodied souls
Tenant thy sun-revolving globe, or soar
164
The spirits to an empyrean height,
View'd from whose glorious pinnacle thou palest
Thy flamy splendor, and appearest dim,
A speck in the immensity of light?
Our dwelling-house is desolate; this foot
Shall ne'er repass the threshold which ye pass'd :
Silence is in the walls that rang so late
With your sweet laughter, and th’ unheeded bird
Flits round the chamber of your happy sleep.
The plants ye loved are wither'd like yourselves: -
The wrecks and relics of your curious search,
Gleanings from fields and woods, the air and streams,
The weed, the fossil, and the insect's wing,
Remain—the records of your innocent tastes,
Remembrances of days of happiness
That never can return : your pen's known trace—
The limnings of your pencil's opening skill—
Oh thought of agony are these then all,
All that are left me of your lovely selves?—
There is a spot, that haunts me when alone :
Nay, ev’n amidst the moving multitude,
165
I gaze on roofs of sea-side cottages,
And a sequester'd path, that, narrowing, winds
Beside a hedge-row, where one apple-tree
Grows wild: a mead beneath the stony hill,
A thicket, and a green and grassy knoll.
The mellow sun stream'd forth a yellowing light
O'er all that rustic landscape: on that knoll
I stood expectant, looking towards the sea
And cluster'd shoreland cottages, and saw
A group advancing by that hedge-row path.
One, with his chosen sister, she whose height
And deeply roseate cheek resembled his,
Came foremost, and last lingering he who, nigh
Upgrown to youth, still most delighted him
With lisping infancy; and thus, ev'n now,
The little Mary leaning on his hand
Loiter'd behind the rest. They track'd the brake
For berries, in their happy thoughtlessness
Thrilling the air with prattled sounds of joy.
I saw them all, by casual circumstance
Thus drawn together; and I gazed on those
Who were my sole society, who form'd
The circle, where all earth's felicities
166
Were center'd ; and the fulness of my heart
Gush’d forth to look upon them, all, at once,
Within my view, a family of love;
Their virtues and their beauties budding fresh
With promise. On that evening I had felt
Intense desire to meet and see them thus
All gather'd in my sight; and therefore gain’d
The rising hill, whence I might trace the path
By which they sought the thickets. Never more
That sight shall bless my vision; nor the sound
Of those united voices make the mead
Echo the jubilee of childhood joy.
I saw not the slow peril, that ev'n then
Rose from th’ horizon, like a man’s dim hand,
To fling its blackness o'er my star of life;
Beard not the stifled step of death, that hung
Close on our rural haunts; pass'd stealthily
Within the social chamber, and kept watch
Beside the couch of guileless sleep. Oh fields
Of flowery verdure thou unclouded sun
Rolling in brightness, and thou concave heaven
Blue with serenest air hills, rocks, and shores |
When shall I close mine eyes and see you not
167
The everlasting mountains are a weight
Upon my spirit, for the feet I loved
Have prest them : and their flitting shadows pass
Before me and around; the sea and earth
Borrow their motions, and their voices fill
The sounds of breezes and of rivulets:
Oh could I close this mock’d and weary gaze,
Shake off the burthen of this beauteous earth,
And hide me from their shadow, where themselves
Lie, side by side, within that sealed vault,
Wrapt in their blessed slumber 1—There is yet—
There is a scene which memory, as in dream,
Too faithful mingles in its sun and shade ;
A single alley of overshadowing trees;
A pathway rising through an upland field;
The cottage, built fantastic like a tower,
With its encircling garden, and, beyond,
The hill-dale, sprinkled with its whitening crags.
Beneath the branches of those trees I sate
With two, whose features, bronzed and ruddy, glowed
With the warm noon-beams, while the sea-breeze raised
Their lightly wafted hair: so pleasantly
They turn'd the classic page. The page is closed:
168
The book unopened rests, a mystery,
A sign and a memorial: he that saw
Those sunny features and those azure eyes
Looks on them still in vision; but for him
The letter'd dead converse in vain; the face
Of nature smiles in vain; there is a shroud
Upon the sun; a blank throughout the rich
And beautified creation : the blue hills
And undulating waters, wafting life
And fragrance, and the joyous sounds, that ring
Among the thickets and the craggy dales,
Are images and echoes that are gone;
Remember'd not possest; a scene of dreams
From which the heart is shut ; from which it turns,
Lest it should open springs of bitterness;
The paradise is there, but still beyond /
There is a gulf betwixt: I may not pass
And taste the pleasance of that genial earth,
And feel the balm of yon embracing heaven.
Rock of St. Vincent l—I revisit thee
With other thoughts and fainter steps; and climb
The spiral path alone, which last I climb'd
169
Not unaccompanied : and, pausing now
Midway the cliff, how desolate the change |
The landscape lies in snow : brown leafless woods
Stretch to the water's edge, contrasting dark
With the dell’s whiten’d hollows: dark the stream
Now winding at its full : a mirror'd flood
Of clearest blackness, so intensely white
Glare the frozen banks above it. Oh drear scene !
How alter’d, yet how meet !—when last I stood
Upon this beetling cliff, the leafy hills
Laugh’d in their greenness, hawthorns blossom'd thick,
And hazels spread their clusters and the paths
And brakes were gemm'd with flowerets. Now I look
Upon a scene of wintry dreariment,
Pale, leafless, herbless, cold : on that black stream,
Black from o'erpowering white, the very barks,
And they, the living beings, that propel
Their sullen, sluggish motion, darkling move,
As if the nether Acheron roll'd on
Its tide before me, and a ghostly fleet
Sail'd on its ebon current. Oh most strange
And most congenial picture | death is there—
Death is before my vision; death within
My heart; but, as I lift my saddening eyes,
170
The tops of those tall cliffs are tinged with light
As it were gold, and, on my left, the sky
Is one clear space of azure, where the sun,
A broaden'd orb, in ruddy splendor hangs,
About to drop beyond the western hills:
Making the whiten’d banks and woodlands brown,
The clear black current and the darksome barks
More desolate from contrast, yet to all
Yielding a glory and sublime relief
With mingled gorgeous imagery of light,
Though solemn still and chasten’d with the gloom
Of desolation. How the mind, effused
Out of itself, communicates the hue
Of its own subtle spirit to the forms
of outward things, and makes the woods and streams
Respond to its discourse, and character
Their feature by its passion 1—I beheld
A grave of waters, deepening dark and still
Beneath me, and above, the tinging gleam
Of light from heaven; the resurrection’s dawn
Gilding the funeral vault; and, in the sun,
The Christian's rest of glory; light and strength
In his decline—the earnest of his rise !
N O'TES.
(14) Page 141, line 5. “I cannot believe that this early death,
which intercepts the fruits of a growing virtue, shall bereave the
virtuous of any degree of that future glory to which such fruits
would have entitled them. I should rather think with the author
of the Book of Wisdom, that having completed their perfection in
a little time, they had, in a little time, finished their course: and
by what they did do, gave such plain proofs of what they would do,
that God rewards their purposes, as he does the actions of others,
and therefore hasteneth to take them to himself. They die in their
perfections,” their glory yet unsullied, their felicity unstained; no
vile temptation, no misfortune having yet triumphed over them;
an advantage which we much admire, when we see great and good
* “Whenever we find any mention of perfection in scripture, if we
examine the place well, we shall find nothing more intended than up-
rightness and integrity; an unblameable and unreproveable life. Thus
upright and perfect are used as terms equivalent.”—JoB i.
172
men surprised or overpowered by weaknesses or calamities: for
then we cannot but acknowledge, that, if death had come sooner,
it had been much kinder: for they had been gathered into the
store-house of the dead, like corn into the granary, before unsea-
sonable or immoderate rain had corrupted it, or any malignant
vapours blasted it. He never dies too soon, who dies ripe and
perfect; and if those divine souls came into the world enriched
with more light and beauty, with more impetuous inclinations to
virtue than those of other men; if their short life were so innocent,
so bright, that, out of a particular grace, God thought fit to exempt
them from the miseries of this life; or that, on account of a parti-
cular pre-eminence, they needed not pass through the trial, the
discipline, and the purgation of it, on either of these supposals we
ought not to commiserate, but revere their fate.”
LUCAs. Enquiry after Happiness, vol. i. p. 346.
(15) Page 141, line 6. See Bishop Bull's Sermons on “the
Subsistence of the Soul of man after Death,” and on the “Middle
State.”
(16) Page 141, line 16. She died March 14, 1830.
Nec frons tristerigens, nimiusque in moribus horror;
Sed simplex hilarisque fides, et mixta pudori
Gratia.
STATIUs. Sylv. v. 1.
173
** Voulez-vous ressusciter avec toutes vos circonstances actuelles?
Non sans doute : mais qui ne voudrait pas renaitre fille et mère ?
et comment serait-on soi, si l'on ne ressentait pas les mêmes
amitiés ?—”
MADAME DE STÄEL. L'Allemagne, 3. 116.
(17) Page 142, line 1. “ Non sum ambitiosus in malis, nec
augere lacrymarùm causas volo ; utinamque esset ratio minuendi.
Sed dissimulare qui possum, quid illi gratiæ in vultu, quid jucun-
ditatis in sermone ; quos ingenii igniculos, quam præstantiam pla-
cidæ, et quod scio vix posse credi tantùm, altæ mentis ostenderit ?
Illud verò insidiantis, quo me validiùs cruciaret, fortunæ fuit, ut
ille mihi blandissimus, me omnibus, qui solicitare solent illas
ætates, anteferret.
** Juro per mala mea, per infelicem conscientiam, per illos
manes, numina doloris mei, has me in illo vidisse virtutes ingenii,
non modò ad percipiendas disciplinas, sed probitatis, pietatis, hu-
manitatis, liberalitatis: etiam illa fortuita aderant omnia ; vocis
jucunditas claritasque, oris suavitas: sed hæc spes adhuc : illa ma-
jora, constantia, gravitas, contrà dolores etiam ac metus robur.”
QUINTILIAN. De duorúm filiorúm interitu, Proæm. lib. vi.
(18) Page 154, line 15. ExTRACT FRoM THE BRIsToL GAZETTE,
SEPTEMBER, I819.—** On Monday last, (Sept. 20, 1819) the two
eldest sons of C. A. ELTON, Esq. (Abraham and Charles, about
fourteen and thirteen [twelve] years of age) who, with the rest of
174
the family were spending some time at Weston-super-mare, went
to a small island near the bathing spot, called Birnbeck, the pas-
sage to which is dry at low water; the connexion with the rocky
shore being by a causeway, thrown up by fishermen to hang their
nets on. Here the young gentlemen were amusing themselves by
searching for small fish, shells, &c.; when the tide, which steals
round the island almost imperceptibly, overtook them, and formed
a junction which cut off their retreat. In this situation they were
seen by a young lady, who made signs to them of their danger, and
gave the alarm; but from the impossibility of floating a boat, from
the shallowness of the beach on which it was moored, all assistance
became vain. In their attempt to reach the shore, the youngest
was carried out of his depth, when the eldest, who was in not so
much danger, stripped and dashed to the rescue of his brother.
The tide, however, which, in this place, rushes like a torrent, was
gaining rapidly on them, and in spite of every exertion, they were
both enveloped in the flood, (about three o’clock, P. M.) As soon
as the tidings reached the afflicted father, he immediately repaired
to the spot, with feelings agonised beyond description. The great-
est anxiety was manifested in every countenance; and, as soon as a
boat could be floated, Colonel Rogers, with two rowers, pushed off
for the island; but all search was in vain.” The bodies have not
* They were found by Mr. William Holyman, of Clevedon, some-
where near a point called Gold Cliff, on the opposite Welsh coast, and
interred in the family vault of Clevedon parish church.
175
yet been discovered, though the jacket of the eldest has been picked
up. They were handsome and accomplished youths; with rare
talents and amiable dispositions; educated entirely by their father,
to whom they were constant companions. What must be his loss |
How inadequate is language to describe it ! Every one feels and
every tongue expresses sympathy and regret.”
4׺n
A DREAM OF ORPHEUS.
179
A D REAM OF ORPHEUS.
I HAD a dream of Orpheus. The veil'd bed
Open'd, as 'twere a cloud, and light was shed
Bathing the midnight darkness in mild gold;
The walls receded; space its depth unroll’d
Far vanishing in distance; gleams of day
Brake o'er brown forests; torrents toss'd their spray
Like smoke; and mountains heaved on heaven, where
caves,
That darken'd inward, sent the knell of waves
In deaf and hollow clang on the far air;
A sunless cataract stream was prisoned there,
Plunging and writhing on its stony rack,
Where old volcanic flames had burn'd their track,
And shagg'd the hollow sides with azure spires:–
The tinge of those old thunder-volleying fires
180
That gasp'd themselves away, and left the surge
To dash with tyrannous foam the hissing verge.
My visual sense was soul; and, like a beam,
It pierced the cavern's mouth, and saw the stream
In its ungovernable plunges, dark
As ebony, yet with a lightning spark
Upon its chafing waters; o'er their bed
Droop'd yellow crystals; fire transmuting spread
Its chemic changes. The bow’d rocks were clung
With weeds, that iced in shattery stone-work hung;
The toad, the bat, gleam'd cold, to marble grown,
And stiffening salamanders froze in stone;
The hardening surges, showering chilly spray,
Changed earth to iron, as they wound their way;
I saw them tumbling o'er their shelvy ledge,
Where night unfathomed lay beyond the edge;
Till fancy totter'd, and I dared not trace
The deeper mysteries of that solemn place:
But, in my bodiless swift presence, turn’d
Where dazzling day without the mountain burn’d ;
On snowy ridges, toppling from on high,
And azure-billowing hills, that lowlier, lie:
Woods and emerging plains, that seem’d almost
Endless, rock, sand, and herbage, till a coast
181
Opposed its marble barrier; and the surge
Of the blue ocean leaned against the verge.
High on the buoyant air there seem'd to spring
The fowls of heaven, that rush on broader wing;
The vulture cross'd the azure with his shade,
And eagles from the cliffs the sun survey’d
With fix’d irradiate eye; and from those hills
I saw the lion stooping towards the rills
That boil’d in clefts of rocks, and tigers slow
Stole from the brake, or, crouching, gazed below
On some aerial antelope, anon
Starting, as 'twere a leaf, scarce seen, and gone.
Thus ruminating, on my ear there came
A sound, a thrill, which was no more the same ;
The wild bird's cry, the forest's mutter'd roar,
The dash of rock-pent streams, the sea-wave hoar
Were blended still ; but, clearer than them all,
An echo smote me with its swell and fall,
Liquid, yet not of waters; for it hung
In tremors, like the nightingale's sweet tongue,
And yet with more of sound and varied art
Melted itself into the brain and heart;
182
That my chain'd spirit struggled to get free
And lose itself in that wild harmony:
And, with a thought, my airy presence stood
Before a mountain grotto; where a wood
Shook with green aspens, and did high o'er-reach
The rock’s tall summit with gigantic beech
And oak and cedar. Nymphs, with vine-leaves crown'd,
Sate, group’d upon the moss; their hair unbound,
And, like those grape-tipp'd tendrils, crisply twined,
Waved down their falling backs and kiss'd the wind.
The panther's mottled velvet part conceal’d
Their dazzling, rounded, forms, and part revealed.
Stags with their antlers peep’d; and the streak'd pard
Couch'd harmless; for before them lean’d a bard
Against the lichen’d rock; within his grasp
A seven-string'd shell; a coil'd and trampled asp
Beneath his foot, the fang still dropping gore.
This was the sound I heard; it breathed no more :
Still the throng’d air was dark with feather'd sails
Of hovering birds; and many nightingales
Lay panting on the grass beneath the trees;
As they had rung their descant on the breeze
In rivalry, and, with their vain intent
Exhausted, flutter'd, voiceless, breathless, spent,
183
But on my ravish'd sense arose a strain
From all those fair-shaped strangers, that again
The air shrill'd musical, and ’twere to die
If I should lose that love-breathed symphony.
SONG OF THE BACCHANTS.
Alas! Eurydice l—and where was he
Within whose arm thy head had folded been
When, through the boundless wood’s untrodden
scene,
Thou didst roam forth in thy simplicity ?
Within his cavern-fane he sate
Unconscious of thy perilous flight;
His god, on whom he fix’d his dazzled sight,
Could not his boasted god reveal thy fate
PIad she with us adored that better shrine,
Blest to the blooming godhead of the vine,
And toss'd her wreathed locks and held
The spear, that had her ravisher repell’d,
Thou would'st not, priest deluded ! prophet vain
Now wake the mountains with thy dirge-like strain.
184
Alas! Eurydice! she trod,
Relying on her solar god,
The unfrequented shade ;
The shepherd Aristaeus came,
With eyes that shot unholy flame,
And started from the glade;
From his extended arms she flew,
And back her glance, abhorrent, threw,
Her shrieks no timely succour drew,
For Bacchus was her scorn;
And pines their thronging branches spread
Above the fugitive's lorn head,
As if to shroud her, while she fled,
From him who gilds the morn;
Hot the pursuit and swift the flight,
And keen the pantings of affright.
Alas! Eurydice l—thy god indeed &
Saved thee from one more terrible than death;
But wherefore did he see thee bleed,
And to a gnawing reptile yield thy breath
Was it, that he we serve, the god
Who walks on dragons, in his fury trod,
185
And part assented to thy godhead's prayer,
And part dispersed in air :
Did not his wand arouse the snake,
That slumber'd in that rustling brake,
To wound thy snowy foot, and tame
Thy husband's soul to tremble at his name *
Alas! Eurydice ſ—thy spouse we love,
And loved thee for his sake and for thine own;
These hands have well avenged thee, for the grove,
Where lurk'd the shepherd, we have overthrown;
Bow’d are the oaks, within whose murmuring cell
His bees, his life, were wont to dwell;
Rifled and trampled are the bowers
That breathed the luxury of trailing flowers.
The god, who calls thy Orpheus, did relent,
And us, his votaries, thy avengers sent;
The shepherd saw our blazing eyes,
He heard the shouts, the raving cries;
He saw the ivy-twisted javelin glare
While brandish’d in the whirling air;
The woods in shiver'd fragments fell—
He fled, and Echo mock’d his frantic yell.
186
Alas! Eurydice l—lift up thy head
Oh youth ! in error wise ! oh beauteous priest !
And dry the tears thine eyes for ever shed;
She is from mortal pain released;
But others live, who love as well;
Again awake thy vocal shell,
And hail the god, whom thou must serve and fear;
Turn from thy lifeless widowhood;
Choose midst the Dryads of the wood;
Choose not departed joy, but find it here !
There was a pause: a silence, fearful, deep,
As though the wilderness were hush'd in sleep;
The youth had grasp'd with agonizing hands
His robe of snowy fleece, while propp'd he stands
Against the granite rock; his frame is shook
With ague thrills; a fire is in his look;
And his wild locks seem curling from his head,
And his cheeks flush with hectic stains of red.
His hand is on his harp : and hark l—the clash,
Shrill, loud, and sudden as the thunder-flash l—
187
ORPHEUS.
I fix my eyes upon thee, mighty sun
That hear'st what these have witness'd, and behold'st
The mockery of their pity! Thou art HE /
The god, whom they blaspheme, is their own god,
Whom they in base and mortal shape would seek
Among their tangled haunts: when they might stand
Upon the mountain which thy glory gilds,
And see thee in thy naked majesty,
God of the vine they worship. Hear me now !
Celestial Bacchus ! radiant Hercules'
That run'st thy race of strength around the stars
Thou Jove, thou Juno of the azure air |
Thou Neptune, brother of thyself, that rulest
The tempest-toiling element of sea
Thou! who art both the sign and source of all,
The world of earth and waters and deep skies,
Hear me !—I ask a token, that these wild
And impious revellers, who crush the grape
In the delirium of infuriate sense,
And, while their lips blush nectar, grudge thee praise;
Who rend thee from thyself, and part thee forth
188
In thousand rivals of thy name throughout
Air, sea, and land—I ask from thee a sign,
That they may turn from phantoms, and discern
Through these thy names and powers thyself alone !
Sole energy l—great spirit !—universe !
At thy blest bidding I forsook the wild
Of snowy Thrace, and from her mountains brought
Into the haunts of savage men the lore
Ineffable, the mystery of THE ONE
Temperance and justice and connubial love.
Be this thy token l—give me to possess
The bride again in life, whose ravisher
May read his warning in the mangled asp
That writhes beneath my ſoot. Eurydice
Give me to repossess Eurydicel
Bride of my youth ! my blooming prophetess'
Upon whose tongue thy mysteries dwelt in music;
Whose eyes gave back the image of thyself:
Who was the priestess of thy shrine, and sate,
Pupil at once and teacher of the good
And beautiful!—restore Eurydicel
She is among the shadows of the land
Where dwell the dead, but thou art also there!
189
There is no cavern of the rounded globe
Where thy pervading glory pierceth not;
And the gold ripens and the ruby burns
In rocks, that never saw the face of heaven,
But own thy fostering warmth within their veins.
Thy light is in the grave; the thought, that breathed
In human forms, survives the smouldering pyre,
And feels thy vital spark and clothes itself
In a bright shadow of its mortal nature:
And I should know her, my Eurydice,
And thou couldst re-illume her scarce-cold limbs
With their extinguish’d fire, and plant again
That rose upon her cheek, whose purple tinge
Was thine. I will conjure thee where thou sitt'st
In the recesses of the cavern'd earth,
With hymnic rhapsodies, which thou hast loved,
When on the Thracian rock I lay supine,
And felt thy ardours beaming on my breast.
Expect me—for I come ! behold—I seek thee!
There was a crash of branches, for the beech,
That tower'd above the cliff, to his strong reach
Bent; his elastic limbs he upward swung,
And on the topmost bough, suspended, hung,
190
Rock'd giddily and fearfully in air;
His weight the reeling branch could scarcely bear
As with nerved grasp the bough embraced he held
And to and fro tumultuously impell’d
The toppling tree; till, when it bending swept
The verdure-tufted crag, at once he leapt
Sheer from the branch, and felt beneath his feet
Heights, which no footsteps but the deer's had beat;
And bounding, where the eagle builds, from sight
He faded upwards into dizzy light.
Then javelins shook and clash'd; a long shrill yell
Was sent through every woodland, cave, and dell ;
The hawk flew screaming from his rock; and o'er
The forest growl'd remote a mutter'd mingled roar.
My sprite was with the bard; I follow’d him
To other mountains, where the sight grew dim
If backward turn’d below: one arm his lyre
Clasp'd close; the sun had touch'd a pine with fire;
He snatch'd a branchy torch; I heard the wave
Dash loud and long and shrill; a yawning cave
Received him, and I enter'd : the cleft sides
Foam’d with the rush and roar of cataract tides;
191
The vaults shot light from crystals, and the walls
That flash'd with gleams of darkling waterfalls,
Show'd the green tints volcanic fires had left,
When flames and waters hiss'd within the cleft.
It was the cavern my far-gifted sight
Had partly fathomed: now a deeper night
Hung o'er my sliding path, by fits illumed
With glancing meteor flashes, as entomb’d
I stood within th’ eternal mountains: deep
And deeper the descending chasm's ridged steep
Open'd, and wide and wider that immense
And endless cavern to my sleeping sense
Struck its far vistas in the pillar'd stone;
By the bard's waving pine-torch gleaming shown
With all their spars of diamond, veins of gold.
Gates of red brass upon their hinges roll’d
Deafening the cataract's thunder: the pine's light,
Now flashing keener flame, disclosed to sight
The space beyond; the river rush'd between
Those clanging valves; a rocky ledge was seen
Banking its broadening current, till it wound
In twined meanders writhing round and round:
Hollow the dreary murmur rose, and more
And more in distance a confused stern roar
192
Of thronging echoes floated near and near;
Vague, undefined, and fraught with doubt and fear;
Then did that dauntless poet loose the fold
Of his girt robe, that round his ankles roll’d,
And bared his flexile arm, and struck the shell
Whose tinkling echoes rose, and rose, and fell :
So all that uproar ceased; and half-seen wings
Of night-birds stirr'd the air and brush'd the strings:
And on the river's breast a darksome boat,
Row’d by a giant arm, was seen to float;
And he was ferried in deep silence o'er,
Till I stood with him on a stranger shore:
And still the harp-strings rang, and shapes of men,
Shadowy, enormous, came thick-flocking then;
With huge, incredible forms of beast-like mould,
That moved with claws, or wings, or snake-like roll'd ;
Or all at once; and, high above us flung,
One on a moveless wheel, grim-gazing hung
His bulk, of stature like a cowering cloud;
Sighs, murmur'd voices, whispers low or loud,
And rustling tramplings throng'd us, and a blast
Of laughter, like a trumpet, clang'd and pass'd.
I felt secure as some invisible sprite,
Impassive to the grasp of hostile might;
193
And onward sped, as I the shadow were
Of him who forced his fearless passage there.
At length the rock receded over-head;
A sky of amethyst o'er-arching spread
Its concave, studded with strange stars, and bright
With comets, wheeling in concentric light;
And, strait before, a palace rear'd on high
Its gold-leaved doors and walls of porphyry;
And I beheld him, while the valves flew wide,
Across the threshold plant his venturous stride,
And pace, with harp in hand, the jasper floor:
Till, touching a soft stop, he paused before
A veiling arras, that with purpling glow
Chequer'd in shifting lights the stone below.
He raised it with his arm, and the strong ray
Of starry lamps flash'd out a midnight day:
And supernatural statures caught the eye
Like shadows flung against a mountain sky:
Embodied attributes, strange virtues, powers
Of vengeance, such as range the guilty towers
Where crime has left its stain : and some there were
Who wreathed the serpent round their female hair.
O
194
The sweet string trembled; all, incontinent,
Gazed, gestureless and mute; the prophet bent
His forehead; since, above that dream-like crowd,
Steps of pyramidal sweep sustain’d a cloud,
Through whose ensanguined and transparent light
What seem'd a pillar'd throne half met the sight,
Where sate a human shape of doubtful guise,
Tenebrous splendour and colossal size:
Dazzling, yet dimly seen : the charming rhyme
Melted from Orpheus' lips; he dared to climb
The slope pyramidal of steps, that grew
Beneath his toiling feet, till to my view
He stood diminished; the last stair he trod,
Fainting, and touch'd the footstool of the god.
He saw a monarch in his pomp of place
Propt on a staff of gold; he saw the face
Of Jove-Apollo in his subterrene
Presence: of two-sex'd aspect: a dark queen
Sate gazing pensive on him, Pluto's spouse;
Arch'd on her forehead met her raven brows,
And languishingly look'd her fawn-like eyes
Through long-fringed eyelids dipt in hyacinth dyes;
195
Her tower-tress'd hair was diadem’d; anon
The apparition of that shape was gone;
And through the fire-red vapour, mantling round
The chair of burnish'd adamant, there frown'd
A giant king, whose spiky crown was set
O'er locks that dropp'd in rings of clustering jet;
Thus, in their violet robes enwrapt, the pair :
Sate twain, or one ; with crisp'd, or flowing, hair;
Or stern, or melancholy mild: each came
And went alone; each different, yet the same ;
Nor e'er at once were those grand phantoms seen—
A lonely king, a solitary queen ;
One only lean'd upon that staff of gold,
And whom you late beheld, you still behold;
Her sandal'd feet still press the agate stair,
And his those raven brows, that tower-wreathed hair;
The lineaments, by involution strange
Of form and sex, pass'd with alternate change
And re-appear'd : and still a disk of rays
Haloed each brow; a faint and flickering blaze;
And in that sign the ravish'd prophet knew
His priesthood pure, his inspirations true.
He look’d upon the self-dividing one,
The female Jove of hell, the subterranean Sun;
196
And, as he twitched the chords with ivory rod,
Lifted his plaintive chant, and hail'd the goddess-god.
SONG OF ORPHEUS.
Proem.
Hail! in whom the heavens eternal centre still as
in their home ;
Earth with all its hills and forests, ocean with its whirls
of foam ;
Mother of the moon; great father of the dews and founts
of fire,
Rivers issue from thy bosom, lightnings own thee for
their sire ;
Hell admits thee to its caverns; death obeys thee; life
attends;
At thy footstool, Sun infernall thus thy priest, thy pro-
phet bends;
Hear Hyperion! hear Serapis! Pan-Osiris! Venus, hear!
Hear me by thy name Adonis | Isis, lean thy charmed
ear!
197
The flame that warm'd my youthful breast
Exhales itself in sighs;
Thy light, all-glorious as thou art,
O sun fatigues mine eyes.
Pair’d on the poplar's silvery bough
The turtles sit and moan
Complaints of love; but tuneless now
To me who sit alone.
The yielding grass betrays the seat
She fill’d beneath the tree ;
I now must shun that bower'd retreat,
For she is lost to me.
The chord that I melodious strung
False trembles to my quill;
Mute is that dear companion's tongue
That join'd its sweeter trill.
The mountain echoes solemn roll
A dirge-like hollow sound;
They commune with my bleeding soul,
That feels the adder's wound.
198
The breezy planes, that clasp their leaf
My burning temples o'er,
Respond in whispers to my grief,
She will return no more.
The moonlight shadows cross my cave,
I see her lingering stand;
And with mock'd gaze despairing rave,
As she eludes my hand.
And when the gleam of morning skies
The vales and rocks unfolds,
What can delight these tearful eyes,
When she no more beholds 2
Grant the prayer of thine adorer,
God of light and life and love
To my vacant arms restore her,
Gladden the deserted grove :
Let the ring-dove's voice again
Charm me with its warbled strain.
199
Let the bank again receive her,
Where she lean'd upon my breast;
Why of life in youth bereave her,
Hades thine unbidden guest ?
Why pronounce the doom I bear,
Sleepless torment, stern despair
Ammon l if e'er I hymn'd thy many names as One,
The self-created soul | supreme, self-center'd Sun
If mine the mortal hand that dared unveil thy face,
And show thee where thou stood'st, all nature for thy
base ;
Through earth's and ocean's depths thy glistening flag
unfurl’d,
Minerva of the heavens and Vulcan of the world ;
Infuse thy holy warmth ! thy vital spirit shed
Within the frigid veins of her, the fleeted dead;
Grant me to clasp the lost, and give mine eyes to see
Eurydice in life, the found Eurydice
200
PROs ERPINE speaks.
The door of death
To all is nigh;
She had mortal breath,
And thou must die.
She had human birth
And was snatch'd away,
Lest the toys of earth
Should thy spirit sway.
With a charm I bind thee —
Avert thy head
One flits behind thee,
Who join'd the dead.
When the upper skies
Have mix’d with her breath,
Then turn thine eyes
For she lives from death.
201
But beware lest haste
The spell dissever,
Or, unembraced,
She is dead for ever !
And, in a thought, I found me at the mouth
Of that enormous cavern; the sweet south
Whisper'd of lilied odours, and the flow
Of Sunshine bathed the mountains in its glow.
The roarings of that subterraneous wave
Were faintlier heard; when, from within the cave,
A harp rang out; a youth with hurried tread
Sprang into day, and, gasping, turn'd his head.
The very heart within me seem'd to break
At the shrill sadness of that following shriek.
A figure like a mist, veil’d snowy white,
Stretch'd its beseeching arms, and sank from sight;
And where that mist-like form, pale-hovering, stay’d
A moment's space,—was blindest, blackest shade.
Then came a distant earthquake sound, whose thrill
Was felt, as from within that tremulous hill;
Gloom fell upon the rocks, and winds howl’d by
With lightning glimpses from a scowling sky.
202
I saw the pontiff youth unmoving stand;
Then, starting, in his harp-strings twine his hand
With passionate tears, and reave them from the shell;
Long forest echoes rang their answering knell
To his redoubling shrieks; the serpent cast
Her venom on him as he bounding pass'd
Beneath the gnarl’d o'erbranching oaks; the glare
Of panthers met him from their briary lair.
Paths, that betray'd the Bacchant's agile pace,
Now led him onward to their holiest place.
With loathing yet determined glance he sees
The human Bacchus’ image, girt with trees;
Whence hung the vine's ripe clusters; and beneath
Lay women, ivy-crown'd, that seem'd to breathe
The breath of deepest slumber, as opprest
With dance and wine, that stain'd their ivory breast,
And left its crimson on their ruddier lip :
And some in dreams appear'd again to sip
The rapture-stirring juice, and leaping hurl
The leafy javelin in its breezy whirl.
A fawn’s gore-spotted hide amidst them lay,
Remnant and symbol of their festive prey;
When snatch'd from mouth to mouth, from hand to hand,
Its living flesh had fed their howling, ravening band.
203
He stood amongst them, and with wildering shout
Startled the sleepers: that inebriate rout
Up-bounded from the earth, their javelins shook,
And measured him, amazed, with lengthening look,
Doubtful, and half-assured: but he, austere,
In desperate anguish smiling scorn of fear,
Dragg'd the stain’d idol from its base, and trod
In the delved mould the mortal-visaged god;
And then a yell broke forth, that babes at rest
Had died to hear it on the lulling breast.
DITHYRAMBIC.
Hail to him hail to the god of the vine !
Death to the spoiler that tramples his shrine !
Death to the wretch who despises our charms,
Looks dew’d with pity and supplicant arms.
Death to the monster who loves but the dead
Twine all your hands in the locks of his head :
Red as the wine let the stream of his heart
Spout on the barb of each ivy-wreathed dart:
Wide let his limbs through the forest be strown;
And the river remurmur the sob of his groan.
204
Hail to him hail to the god of the vine !
Death to the spoiler that tramples his shrine !
And on the pontiff youth their arms they flung
And round and round with fierce embracements clung;
Their writhing hands were twisted in his locks;
Headless he sank : but woods and glades and rocks
Told back the voice of his last agony—
“Eurydice l ah poor Eurydice l’
The last, the only sounds his tongue had shaped
Still quiver'd on the lip, when life escaped;
The stream, that his disparted visage roll’d
Along its ruddy tides, that echo told,
And all the wild roar died along the steep ;
And those who wreak'd the vengeance, paused to weep.
A troubled, gloomy, and repentant air,
The mien of jealous, erring, fond despair—
Forgiveness melting in the gall of hate,
And wrath to love relenting—when too late l—
Such thoughts were painted on each face; and all
Moved silent back to a maim'd funeral;
Gathering the scatter'd limbs beneath a mound
Of heapy earth, and strewing roses round.
205
The forest closed upon their toil; and night
Press'd heavy on my intercepted sight;
An interval, as if in death I lay,
And motion, sense, and thought, had past away.
Till snatch'd afar, as in a trance, I sank
In torrent-eaten caverns, drear and dank,
Where meteors, darting their phosphoric ray,
Gleam'd through sparr'd vaults to light my downward
way;
And consciously I pass'd that brassy door,
And felt my footsteps on the jasper floor.
The walls then melted, like a mist, away,
The spangled heavens dissolved in purple day,
And there were lawns of greenness, and far gleams
Of golden fruitage and of amber streams,
And childhood groupes and many an arm-link'd pair;
And one of roseate cheek and sunny hair,
With starr'd and azured vestments, lean’d her head
O'er a wan youth, who waked as from the dead :
Drew life and love like sunlight at his eyes,
And held his breath in speechless ecstacies;
Then dove-like murmur'd, while delight grew pain,
“Eurydice thou, then, art mine again "
S C E N E S
FROM
T H E G R. E. E. K. D R A M A.
209
A TRILOGY,
FROM THE THREE TRAGIC POETS,
COMPRISING THE DEATHS OF AGAMEMNON AND CLYTEMNESTRA,
AND THE MADNESS OF ORESTES.
From the Agamemnon. Æschylus.
CLYTEMNESTRA, AGAMEMNON, CASSANDRA, SENATORs of ARGos.
CLYTEMNESTRA.
ELDERS of Argos! citizens ! I need
No blushes, if I speak unto you all
The love I bear my husband. Such reserve
Must yield to time and circumstance. I ask
No help from others to describe the life
Of weariness I led, when he was absent
Under Troy's walls. Nay—’tis a fearful thing
For a lone woman thus to sit at home,
Her husband far away, and listen ever
To harrowing rumours, while another comes,
And now another, bringing still worse news:
P
210
Yea—if her husband bore as many wounds
As foolish messengers would have her think,
He might be called a sieve ; and, were he dead
As thick reports would have him, Geryon he
On upper earth, I name not him below,
Might vaunt himself of a tripartite mail,
In his three bodies dying thrice a death.
'Twas from such vexing rumours many a time
Have these my menials loosen’d from my neck
The noose, that I, for violence, had knit ;
Owing to these, our son, the pledge of mine
And thy own troth, Orestes, is not here
To hail thee, as were meet; stand not amazed;
One bound to us in hospitality
Has him in kindly charge, Stropheus of Phocis;
For he forewarn’d me of ambiguous ills,
And thy own danger under Ilium's walls,
Should the roused multitude's wild anarchy
O'erturn the council : such the brutish mind
Innate in mortals; they would trample on
Him who were fall’n from greatness. No deceit
Lurk'd in this warning, but the founts are dry
That gush'd with these lamentings, and no drop
211
Lingers within mine eyes. Yet are they dim
With weeping, and with watching for the torch,
Signal of thy return : and in my slumbers,
At the slight rustlings of the twanging gnat
I started up awake, more slaughters seen
Of thee, than, while I dream’d, the time would bear.
These have I suffer'd with deep-sorrowing spirit:
Then let me name this man, as one to me
The watch-dog of the sheepfold, of the ship
The saviour cable; pillar of the roof
Rear'd high above; the father's only son;
The land appearing to the mariner
Beyond all hope; day beautiful to sight
Breaking when storms are past, or fount whose gush
Slakes the way-farer's thirst. O sweet it is
Thus to escape from our appointed sufferings |
Then is he worthy of our great all-hail!
Take not my speech amiss, for many a pang
Of absence has been mine. O dearest life
Come down then from thy chariot; but on earth
Set not thy foot; that foot which trampled Troy.
Why linger ye my damsels —Ye, whose task
It is to spread his path with tapestries :
2I2
On purple be his passage to the house
That hoped not for him ; this his graced return.
I will not sleep till I the rest dispose—
Heaven willing—as beseems his destiny.
AG AMEMIN ON.
Daughter of Ledal guardian of my house !
What thou hast spoken does, in truth, befit
My tedious absence, for thy words are drawn
Somewhat at length. The praise, which might become
me,
Is for the mouth of others, not for thine.
But more than all, seek not to trick me out
In this effeminate fashion, nor salute me
With dust-prostration, and mouth-clamour thus,
As I were some barbarian; nor yet pave
My way with these invidious tapestries,
For so we honour gods: not without risk
Of grave offence, if I may speak my mind,
You bid me, a poor mortal, tread upon
Embroidered arras. Honour me as man,
Not as a god. Fame's echo needs not these
Foot-cloths or vain embroideries. To be wise
213
In season is the greatest gift of heaven:
And we pronounce him happy, who, serene
In his prosperity, so ends his life.
If such estate be mine, ’tis all I ask.
CLYTEMNESTRA.
Nay—speak not to me what thy thoughts belie.
AG AME MIN ON.
Be well assured, my mind is not debased.
CLYTEMINIESTRA,
Hast thou a vow, and dost thou act in this
Through terror of the gods
AGAMEMIN ON.
Of my own thought
I speak this thing.
CLYTEMINIESTRA.
But say—had Priam done
Such deeds as thine, how, think'st thou, would he act
AGAMIEMIN ON.
Priam, belike, would tread on pictured cloths.
CIYTEMINESTRA.
The blame of men affrights thee ?—fear it not.
214
AGAMIEMN ON.
The popular voice is strong.
CLYTEMIN ESTRA.
He is not great
Whom envy does not carp at.
AGAMEMIN ON.
'Tis not seemly
In woman to contend in words for mastery.
CLYTEMINIESTRA.
In mighty ones 'tis graceful to be vanquish’d.
AGAMIEMN ON.
Well—an thou needs must have it so, let some one
Straight loose th' encumbering buskins from my feet.
Treading with these on the sea-tinctured cloths
The gods might, haply, strike me from afar
With evil eye. Yea—it were sorry usage
To trample on thy gorgeous arras thus
And fray the texture of their costliness,
The price of silver. But of this enough—
Receive this stranger kindly. She, who rules
With mildness, has the eye of heaven upon her
Graciously bent. None willingly would bear
215
The yoke of slavery. She, a chosen flower
From an exuberant spoil, was th’ army's gift,
And my companion homeward. Now then come—
Since I may not gainsay thee, let me enter
My house, and, if it must be so, on purple.
CLYTEM NESTRA.
The sea is surely left us; who shall dry it
And pays your silver with its darkling purple,
That dyes our twice-dipt vesture; and our palace
Is queen of such, no less than are the gods.
To have, or I mistake me, not to need,
This is our house's attribute from yore :
And I had vow'd that he should set his foot
On heapy carpets, when I offer'd up
Victims, to bribe from heaven his wish’d return.
When the root flourishes, a screen of leaves
O'ercanopies the dwelling, and outspreads
Its shade against the dog-star's glare ; and thou,
Return'd, and visiting thy hearth and home,
Ev’n in the winter, art a cheering warmth :
And in the season, when aérial Jove
Ferments the new wine in the acrid grape,
216
The house is coolness, if the husband dwell there.
Jove, Jove all-perfect!—perfect what concerneth
Me and my vows!—accomplish thy own ends !
[They enter the palace: Cassandra remains.
CHORUS OF SENATORS.
Why does this sign and boding sense of ill,
O'ermastering all within, controul
My too prophetic soul ?
It hovers round me still ;
The seer's presaging thought
Unbidden and unbought,
Shapes the dim future in oracular lay;
Nor can bold faith disown
The dread, and shake it from the bosom's throne,
Or bid it pass, like wildering dreams, away.
Long is it since the nautic host
Went up against the far-sought Ilian coast,
And did their sand-indenting galleys moor
With crash of cables, passing up the shore.
I know them now return’d again
My own eyes witness their reverted sail;
But, for the lyre's triumphal strain,
Some fury lifts her dirge-like wail :
217
The mind, self-taught, feels hope depart,
And the bland confidence of faith is flown:
Infallible these promptings of the heart,
These whirlpool thoughts, by which th' event is
known :
But O ! may falsehood lurk beneath my fear,
And far be that, I deem already near !
The full-blown prime of health
Hastes to th’ insatiate close of mortal things;
Disease dwells ever nigh
And slight the parting boundary;
Fate guides the helm of man with course serene,
Then strands him upon rocks unseen;
And coffer'd heaps of ancient wealth
Sloth scatters, as from slings;
Yet with the weight of its calamity
Bows not the burthen’d house from high,
Nor maketh shipwreck utterly ;
For oft the boon of Providence has blest
The furrows of the field,
That yearly fruitage yield,
*
Destroying from the earth the hunger-pining pest.
218
But when once the blackening blood
Before the feet of man hath pour'd its flood
Upon the darken'd ground,
And death fast cometh, as it leaves the wound,
What charmer's voice, what magic strain,
Can lure it back again
Or why, if this might be, should Jove reprove
Th’ all-knowing sage, who raised the dead
Ah! had not fate represt
The secrets heaving in my breast,
My heart had leapt before th' events to come,
And pour’d it on my tongue in prophecies;–
Now—shuddering in its darkness—it is dumb :
I have no hope to wind
The skein of timely enterprise,
Or blow the sparks that kindle in the mind.
CLYTEMNESTRA re-enters.
Enter thou also l— I address Cassandra !
Since Jove relentingly has placed thee here
In this our house, chosen from many captives
To bear the sprinkling vase, and stand beside
219
The prospering god's high altar, leave the car
And be not scornful: for tradition tells,
Alcmena's son, sold to captivity,
Was forced to bend him to the yoke. When thus
Necessity lays the hard fortune on thee,
Such masters, whose hereditary wealth
Descends to them from old, dispense free grace;
But they who, beyond hope, have heap'd abundance,
Are cruel to their slaves, yea, beyond measure.
Thou hast my words—the comfort custom sanctions.
CHORUS.
She doth refrain from speech;
When thou shalt be, anon,
Within the fated net,
Thou wilt obey, if that thou canst obey,
Or strive in disobedience—’tis alike.
CLYTEMIN ESTRA.
Unless her speech be barb’rous and unknown—
Some jargon like the swallow's—what I speak
Will carry to her inner mind persuasion.
[She is going.
220
CHORUS TO CASS ANDRA.
Follow her : that she speaks
Is best in thy condition: rise,
And leave the chariot-seat.
CLYTEMINIESTRA.
I have no leisure thus before the gates
To waste time with her: at my household-altar
The sheep stand ready for the victim slaughter,
That soon shall feed the fire; as due from those,
Who gain a grace from heaven beyond all hope.
If thou wilt take a part, make no delay.
If, withess of my words, thou mark'st me not,
Speak with thy foreign gesture to my voice.
CIHORUS.
The stranger seems to need
Some wise interpreter:
Her bearing too is wild,
As of some beast of prey,
Caught in the recent snare.
CLYTEMIN ESTRA.
She is insane, and looks distraught of mind;
Like one just made a captive, who hath left
221
Her native city. She is restive yet,
And champs upon the bit, which she will bear,
When she has foam’d her bloody rage away.
I'll waste my breath no more in chiding her.
[Goes into the palace.
CIHORUS.
I cannot—for I feel
Compassion towards her—speak to her in anger.
Go, thou unhappy maid!
Go, leave the car; become
Familiar to the yoke;
Yield to the force of fate.
CASS ANDRA.
Wo's me!—Gods ! Earth ! Apollo 1 oh Apollo!
CHORUS.
Why dost thou cry aloud
Upon Apollo 2 he is not of those
Who come, when voices lift themselves in weeping.
CASS ANDRA.
Wo's me !—Gods ! Earth ! Apollo 1 oh Apollo
222
CHORUS.
Again with evil omen
She doth invoke the god,
Who comes not at the mourner's need.
CASS ANDRA.
Oh guide Apollo l fatal guide to me !
The second time my guide and my destroyer
CHORUS.
She seems to prophecy her own misfortunes;
Still in her mind, although a slave,
The divine spirit rests and lingers still.
CASS ANDRA.
Apollo 1 oh Apollo 1 oh ! my guide
Oh whither hast thou led me 2 to what house 2
CIHORUS.
To the Atridae's—if thou know'st it not,
Hear it from me ; thou wilt not find it falsehood.
CASS ANDRA.
A house, a house detested by the gods;
Domestic slaughters steam from these abodes;
Death-cords are swung aloft; a victim's gore,
A husband victim's, floats the curdled floor.
223
CIHORUS.
This stranger, with the blood-hound's tact,
Hath traced the scent of murder hitherward.
CASS ANDRA.
Conviction flashes, as these signs appear—
The weeping babes, the human shambles near—
The father feasting on the flesh.-
CHORUS.
Enough
Our ears, our ears have heard
Thy prophet fame;
We need no prophets now.
CASS ANDRA.
Oh heaven oh heaven above what planneth she
Within this house what new calamity
Intolerable, incurable;—'tis done—
For she has banish’d hence the manhood of the son.
CHORUS.
I read not these oracular strains; the first
I knew, for with those deeds
The city rings aloud.
224
CASS ANDRA.
Ah! wretch! what? in the bath? he shared thy bed,
Dost thou refresh to lay him with the dead
How name th' event?—’tis done—she takes her stand—
Her hand outstretcht is grasping at his hand.
CIHORUS.
I nothing know : th’ enigmas these
Of prophecy; I stagger in the darkness.
CASS ANDRA.
Sweet heavens! what sight is this? the net of death
She is, herself, his net, who drew sweet breath
Upon his pillow, now his murderess-mate;
Howl treason 1 o'er this victim of his fate,
One of the death-doom'd race, “fallen from his high
estate l’”
CIHORUS.
What fury dost thou bid
To lift her voice aloud, that all the house
Re-echoes to the sound
Her speech doth trouble me:
The blood runs back upon my heart:
225
A saffron paleness sits upon my cheek,
As when the glimmering eye-balls fail in death.
Some new misfortune is at hand.
CASS ANDRA.
Look lo !
Keep back the heifer from the bull ! wo, wo
She takes him in the smaring vesture’s fold,
And with her lifted engine smites: behold !
He falls within the font. I tell to thee
The font's deceit and slaughterous tragedy.
CIHORUS.
I boast not to attain the height
Of oracles, but liken them to evil.
What speech of good from oracles
Has ever reach'd the mortal ear 2
From immemorial time
The arts of prophets bear
Dread and disaster to the mind.
CASS ANDRA.
Alas! alas!—oh wretched, wretched fate
Mine—I deplore my own forlorn estate:
Why hast thou led me hither—wretched maid!
Why—but that I may be to death betrayed :
Q
226
CHORUS.
Thou art delirious—brainsick with the god
That sets thy senses thus upon the whirl;
And from thy own imaginings
Utterest the veering strain,
Ev’n as the tawny nightingale
From her sad, pity-loving soul
With Itys, Itys, sobs away
Her life, that blossoms but with miseries.
CASS ANDRA.
Ah me ! ah me ! the nightingale's sweet lot
A sweet existence that lamenteth not;
A body, clothed with plumes, the gods have given,_
The two-edged falchion is my doom from heaven.
CHORUS.
Whence hast thou these thick fancies rhapsodies :
These airy slaughters ? and with voice
Tuneful, yet terrible,
Chauntest thy boding numbers high and shrill P
Whence hast thou thus the way
Of evil-omen'd prophecy
227
CASS ANDRA.
Wedding of Paris' wedding fraught with death !
Scamander where I drew my wretched breath,
And tasted infant’s food, alas ! for me !—
Now on Cocytus' banks, methinks, I prophecy!
CHORUS.
Nay—this thy speech pertaineth not to seers;
The babe new-born may hear and understand.
But bloody terror smites me, while she wails
Her hapless fortune and her many woes,
That rend my wounded ear.
CASS ANDRA.
Wo for the troubles, troubles that from high
Cast down our Troy to perish utterly
Wo for the victim blood my father shed
Before the walls, where flocks of pasture bled,
Yet brought no remedy: what should be, must ;
The city suffer'd and is now but dust.
And I too—time is hastening to the birth—
Shall pour my warm life on the reeking earth.
228
CHORUS.
Thy spirit still follows the former track :
What Demon, say,
Weighing thee down, has fall’n
Upon thy raging soul,
Forcing thy lips to breathe this plaintive chaunt
Of drear, death-bearing woes
The end I cannot trace.
CASS ANDRA.
Come then—the oracle no more shall meet
Your eyes, as through a veil, like a new bride,
But dazzling as the risen sun in heaven
Shall it appear, and breathe itself distinct
That ye may listen, clear as the nigh sound
Of the dash’d wave; the wo, that goes before,
Far greater than the wo that pass'd away.
I will no longer teach by parables.
Yel bear me witness—on the scent of ills
My foot still courses with unerring track,
Ills that were wreak'd of old : for never more
The band of Furies shall forsake these halls,
229
Whose voice accords, but not a tuneful voice;
It speaks not happily. The revelling troop
Has drunk of human gore, that their fierce spirits
May rise to wilder boldness; and they haunt
The chambers yet, though in hot haste to join
Their sister Furies in the nether hell,
From whom their mission 'gainst their will detains them.
Yea—cowering on those floors, they chaunt aloud
Their hymn, its theme that old original crime:
And, in his turn, denounce with hate the man
Whose print incestuous mark'd his brother's bed.
Miss'd I the mark, or, like an archer, struck it
Am I a lying prophetess, that knock
At gates, and babble trifles?—Ere ye thus
Conclude, come swear, and testify my speech
Has knowledge of this mansion's ancient sins.
CIHORUS.
How should an oath, though bound
Indissoluble, aught avail
To healthy sore calamity ?
But I do wonder at thee, born
Beyond the sea, in city uttering sounds
230
Of foreign speech, that thou should'st fall upon
Words, as if ever present on our soil.
CASS ANDRA.
The prophet god appointed me this gift:
Before, my bashfulness forbade me speak.
CHORUS.
Was he not, although a god,
Smit with thy love whoe'er is lapp'd in ease
Runs riot in his will.
CASS AND RA.
He sued me, breathing passionate delight.
CIHORUS.
Was his love sanction'd by the nuptial tie
CASS ANDRA.
I pledged my troth, but did delude the god.
CIHORUS.
Wert thou already seal'd to arts inspired
CASS ANDRA.
Already I’d foretold my country's woes.
231
CHORUS.
How did Apollo's anger visit thee
CASS ANDRA.
Since that my sin, I could not aught persuade.
CHORUS.
To us thou seem'st a prophetess of trust.
CASS ANDRA.
Alas! alas ! oh wo ! oh wo is me !
Again the dread prophetic agony
Is whirling on my brain I see them rise,
Preludes ill-omen'd, to these troubled eyes!
See ye those children, whose pale figures gleam
Like phantom shapes, that flit in ghostly dream P
They sit within the hall—that household food,
The piteous feast that once the board imbrued,
Their own flesh fills their grasp, and, as they stand,
The father tastes it from their spectral hand
For these, for these offences, lo! I say
That lion weak now couching waits his prey;
That loller on the bed, home-haunter, yearns
Till that my lord—alas ! my lord—returns;
232
His yoke is on my neck, perforce obey'd ;
That chief of ships, who Troy in ashes laid,
Rnows not the words of that she-dog accurst,
Her words—whose thoughts serene his murder nursed;
A hidden death, which he shall surely find
From evil fortune and a desperate mind.
Such things a woman dares: a woman slays
A man; how shall I name her by what phrase,
That kindless, venomous wretch? the two-form'd snake
Or some strange Scylla, who in rocks doth make
Her dwelling-place, of mariners the fell
Destruction, or the mother fierce of hell,
That breathes, in dearest friends, unreconciled,
Obstinate hate f how her glad yell rang wild,
Virago as she is, as though a host
Were turn’d in rout ! 'tis her exulting boast
Her husband is return'd. What if I fail
To gain belief, shall unbelief avail?
What is to come shall come ; and thou shalt rue
Th’ event, and own the prophetess was true.
CHORUS.
Thyestes' banquet on his children's flesh
I knew and shudder'd at ; and terror now
233
Possesses me, to hear
These not mere empty shadowings of truth.
Listening the rest, I wander from my course.
CASS ANDRA.
I tell to thee, that thou shalt see the death
Of Agamemnon.
CHORUS.
Words of better omen
Speak, wretched maid ' and lull thy lips with opiates.
CASS ANDRA.
No leech prescribeth in the word I speak.
CHORUS.
No—if it happen thus—but heaven forefend
CASS ANDRA.
Thou may’st protest—the murderers will be busy.
CHORUS.
But by what man is this distress contrived 2
CASSAN DRA.
Thou must have wander'd wide of my divinings.
234
CHORUS.
I understood not who should weave the wile.
CASS ANDRA.
And yet I know aright the Grecian speech.
CHORUS.
These utterings are inspired, yet hard to bear.
CASS ANDIRA.
Oh heaven! oh heavenly powers! how fierce a flame
Help Phoebus, cruel Phoebus !—thrills my frame !
The biped lioness who makes her mate
The wolf, the generous lion gone, shall wait
To slay me, wretched that I am the wife
Now drugs the posset that shall quench my life,
As payment of her hate ; against her lord,
Who bore me with him, proud she whets the sword.
Why do I wear these mockeries still This rod,
And these mock-garlands of the prophet god
Thus, ere I die, I cast you from me; torn
And trampled, hence l—some other be your scorn 1
Apollo's self has rent my robes aside;
Be witnesses! that foes and friends deride
235
The prophetess in all her deck'd attire,
With mocks how undeserved 1–I bore the shame,
The vagrant witch, the beggar-maniac's name.
At length the prophet god conducts his seer
To end her course in deadly fortunes, here !
Mine the same altar where my father bled;
My steaming blood, like his, a victim's, shed ;
Not unavenged of heaven 1–he comes anon,
The mother-slaying, sire-avenging son,
A wandering, banish'd man returns to cheer
His friends and higher heap this gory bier,
Revenging him unkindly prostrate here.
Yet wherefore, as a native, should I groan
For this land's ills, who saw the miseries of my own
And see the foes, that scaled our Ilium's towers,
Fall thus, by judgment of heaven's righteous powers ?
On, and endure l—heaven has my oath, and now
Hear, oh ye gates of hell ! accept my vow !
Let my life's blood ebb easily away,
And my closed eyes at once shut out the day !
CHORUS.
Oh! most unhappy lady and too wise !
236
Thou draw'st thy words at length when time seems
pressing.
If thou, indeed, be conscious to thyself
Of thy own death approaching, wherefore thus
Rush, like a heaven-driven heifer, to the altar
CASS ANDRA.
Strangers! I may no longer fly my fate.
CHOR U S.
The latest time is best.
CASS ANDRA.
The day's at hand,
And flight were little gain.
CIHORUS.
Thou art most surely
Wretched, thus daring with a desperate mind.
CASS ANDRA.
The ear, that hears thee, is not of the happy.
CHORUS.
Mortals are favour’d by a death of glory.
237
CASS ANDRA.
Alas for thee, and thy brave race, my father
CHORUS.
What now —what terror makes thee thus recoil
CASS ANDRA.
Ah me! ah me !
CHORUS.
Why shrink'st thou in abhorrence 2
CASS ANDRA.
This dwelling breathes of blood.
CHORUS.
Why doth the fume
Of hearth-slain victims thus affect thy sense
CASS ANDRA.
An odour issues forth as out of graves.
CHORUS.
No Syrian perfume this thou tell'st us of
CASSATN DIRA.
No—for I mourn, within that mansion, mine
And Agamemnon's death. Suffice it now
238
That I have lived. O strangers' not from fear
Ye see me shrink, as the bird shuns the twig:
But that ye may bear witness when I'm dead,
When for a woman dead a woman dies,
And a man falls for an ill-mated man,
About to die, I thus repay’d your welcome.
CIHORUS.
Poor maid! I mourn thy prophecied decease.
CASS ANDRA.
Yet, ere I go, receive my last bequest,
And hear me chaunt my dirge : oh Sun oh Sun
Till thy last lingering light
I call upon thee! I invoke thee, Sun
With others, my avengers l that, at once,
On these my hateful murderers ye avenge
A captive maiden, slain with easy conquest.
Oh mutable affairs of men
Prosperous, a crossing shadow overturns
Their pride of place;
Adverse, a sponge obliterates their image;
This, more than all of human change,
This utter desolation moves my pity.
239
CHORUS.
But the well-doer still
Hath praise from mortal men;
On him, who is the gaze of all the world
For virtue, none forbidding shuts the door;
[Cassandra goes in.
Cross not the threshold with those boding ravings'
The blessed gods have granted him to take
The city of Priam ; home-return’d he comes,
Heaven-honour'd : but if now he be to rue
The blood he shed before, and die himself
For those who died, most heavy were th’ atonement.
Who, when he hears the tale, shall say that e'er
A kindly genius bless'd the birth of man :
AGAMEMNON, (within.)
Oh me !—I’m stricken—wounded to the death !
SEMI-CIHORUS.
Peace l—who exclaims
As wounded to the death
AGAMIEMN ON.
Oh me! again I’m wounded.
240
SEMI-CIHORUS.
'Tis the king !
By that his cry death-deeds are busy with him.
Let us consult with caution.
SEMI-CHORUS.
I would counsel
To raise the city with our cries, and bring
Aid to the palace.
SEMI-CIHORUS.
Let us rather fall
Upon the murderers, while the sword is reeking
Within their hands, and thus detect the deed.
SEMI-CEIORUS.
I think the same, that something should be done
And not the time let slip.
SEMI-CIHORUS.
We must look to it;
This is the prelude to a tyranny.
SEMI-CIHORUS.
We waste the time—they, who would put in act
Their purpose, seldom sleep.
24l
SEMI-CHORUS.
I know not what
To think or to advise. Who mean to act
Must first deliberate.
SEMI-CIHORUS.
But for action I-
Our speeches cannot raise the dead to life.
SEMI-CIHORUS.
Shall we, to stretch a vile existence, yield
To chiefs like these, who stain their house with crimes?
SEMI-CIHORUS.
This must not be endured ; to die were better;
Death can be better borne than tyranny.
SEMI-CIHORUS.
Shall we regard those outcries as a proof
That he is dead P
SEMI-CIHORUS.
They may speak thus, who know :
To know and to surmise are not the same.
R
242
SEMI-CHORUS.
Thou shalt o'er-rule me ; let us in and see,
With our own eyes, how fares it with Atrides.
CLYTEMNESTRA enters.
That, which I spoke at large in fitting season,
I blush not to retract; who, otherwise,
Devising hostile practice against foes
That seem to be as friends, might safe contrive
Inextricable ruin, and o'er-leap
The height of their success P For not to me
The struggle for this victory, plann’d long since,
Comes unpremeditated, though it come
Late ; and I stood beside him where he fell
Into my deep-laid Snares. I so contrived,
(For why should I deny it?) neither flight
From death, nor yet resistance stood him aught
In stead;—for, like a fisher's net, I threw
Th’ indissoluble folds of his own robe
Around him, whose embroideries were his bane.
I struck him twice; and, with two outcries, dropp'd
His limbs unnerved; and, prostrate as he lay,
I dealt him a third wound, a grateful offering
243
To Hades under earth, who keeps the dead.
He fell, and, falling, gasped away his soul:
And, breathing out the life-blood at a gush
With that so sudden wound, he sprinkled me
With drops of crimson from a gory dew,
And I felt gladden'd, as the freshen’d earth
With heaven's own moisture, when the flower-bud opens.
Ye have what has occurr'd; then, reverend men
Of Greece rejoice, if that rejoice ye may,
And such my wish; were it allow'd to pour
Libation for the dead, 'twere justly done;
So, beyond measure, had that man fill’d up
For this our house the cup of woes accurst,
From which, at length return'd, he suck'd the lees.
CPHORUS.
We marvel that thy tongue
Rings such audacious larum of the breath,
Blazoning thy husband's murder.
CI, YTEMINIESTRA.
Ye pretend
To daunt me as a pusillanimous woman :
The heart I bear is fearless, and full well
244
I think ye know it. Blame me, or approve,
I heed not which. Here Agamemnon lies
Dead; ev’n my husband; dead, and by this hand.
I plann'd the deed in justice, and 'tis done.
CHORUS.
Oh woman l of what food
Or maddening beverage tasting,
Which earth or the salt ocean yields,
Hast thou set forth a bloody sacrifice,
And drawn upon thy head the people's curses :
Thou hast wounded; thou hast slain ;
The city casts thee out, the nation's horror.
CLYTEMIN ESTRA.
So—ye can sentence me to banishment
Smit by the city’s ban, the people's curse;
But have ye nothing 'gainst this man, who took
His flesh and blood, his daughter, like a lamb
Out of the grassy pasture, the dear child
Whom I had borne, and offer'd her tº appease
The blasts of Thrace Had not this man well earn'd
The wages of your banishment?—But me
Ye sentence, and condemn this act of mine
245
Before well heard. Now let me speak in turn—
I brave your malice; I am one prepared
For each event; if ye, by like success,
Can triumph o'er me with a stronger arm,
Ye shall be masters; if the god I serve
Have otherwise decreed, ye shall, be sure,
Learn wisdom, though the lesson may be late.
CHORUS.
Thou talk'st it bravely, and thy high disdain
O'er-vaults itself. The mind within thee reels
With slaughter-drunken fortune into madness;
Thine eyes stand out in fulness, but their beauty
Is all suffused with blood: thou shalt atone
Blow for each blow, and every friend desert thee!—
CLYTEMN ESTRA.
Then hear me, while I swear !—By that revenge
Ta’en for my murther'd daughter—by those Furies
To whom I offer'd him, a reeking victim,
I dream not e'er to walk my house in fear,
While my AEgisthus stands beside its hearth,
To aid me, as before, with strength of counsel:
My shield of dauntless confidence is he.
246
Yea—he is dead, who was a blasting mischief,
While he had life, to me, an injured woman;
The paramour of every light Chryseis
Within Troy city: she too, his fair captive,
Who babbled oracles, and shared his bed;
His seer and concubine; who plied her trade
Before the mast and on the rower's bench,
She too is dead; they died in all their glory;
He, as ye have been told ; she, like the swan,
Warbling her own death-ditties to the last.
Well—she is dead, this mistress; and has brought
A feast of pleasures to my bed of love.
CHORU. S.
Alas! what sudden fate,
With no preparing pains,
No hand assiduous tending a sick bed,
Has brought upon us an eternal sleep !
The guardian of our kingdom, he is slain
The most benign of men,
Who, for a woman's sake so much had suffer'd,
And now has lost his life, and by a woman
247
FROM THE E L EC TRA.
Sophocles.
ELECTRA, CHORUs of NATIVE VIRGINs. To them enter ORESTEs,
attendants bearing an urn, and PyLADEs.
ORESTES.
INFORM me damsels l have I heard aright?
, And tread I now aright the way I seek
CHORU. S.
What dost thou seek, and what thy wish in coming
ORESTES.
I have long sought the mansion of Ægisthus.
CHORUS.
In the right way thou art, and he that show'd thee
Stands clear of blame.
248
O RESTES.
Who of your company
Will speak the welcome presence of us both
CIHORUS.
She-if she needs must tell a brother's death.
ORESTES.
Go–lady enter in, and signify
That certain Phocian strangers seek AEgisthus.
ELECTRA.
Ah me unhappy bringst thou certain proofs
Of that sad rumour, which has met our ears
ORIESTES.
What you have heard I know not; but th' old man,
Stropheus, has sent a message of Orestes.
ELECTRA.
What, stranger l is the message 3 how I tremble !
ORIESTES.
Thou seest, we carry with us in this urn
The crumbled relics of Orestes dead.
249
ELECTRA.
Oh! wretched that I am it, then, is clear;
My whole vast anguish stares me in the face.
ORESTES.
If that thou weep'st th’ ill fortunes of Orestes,
Know that this vase contains his rested ashes.
EI,ECTRA.
Beseech you, stranger let me, by the gods,
If that poor urn, indeed, enshrine my brother,
Let me but hold it in my hands; and weep
For these sad ashes, for myself, and all
My race at once.
W ORIESTES.
Ho! ye that bear the urn,
Give it the lady, whosoe'er she is ;
Not in the spirit of ill-will she asks it;
Some friend, perchance, of his, or near of blood.
ELECTRA, (taking the urn in her arms.)
Oh dear memorial of the most beloved
Of men thou remnant of Orestes’ soul |
With hopes how different do I now receive thee
From those with which I sent thee forth ! for now
250
I grasp thee in my hands, and thou art—nothing !
Yet then, poor youth ! I sent thee from our house
Radiant in all thy bloom. Oh I would that life
Had left me, ere I sent thee thus away
Into a foreign land, when I, by stealth,
Preserved thee safe, and snatch'd thee from the slaughter!
So on that very day thou might'st have fall'n
And thus, in quiet, shared thy father's tomb.
Now, far from home and in a stranger land,
A banish'd man and parted from thy sister,
Thou hast most foully fallen nor with these hands
Could I, unhappy deck thy sprinkled corse,
Nor, as beseemed me, bear the painful pile
For th’ all-consuming fire : but thou, poor wretch |
Wert laid by foreign hands, and thou art here
A heap of dust within a narrow urn.
Oh me unhappy! unavailing dainties,
Which, many a time and oft, in the days past
I brought thee with sweet trouble ! thou wert never
Dear to thy mother, as to me; and I,
Of all the household people, was thy nurse:
I, thy own sister, still conversed with thee.
There is an end of all : for, on one day,
251
All died with thee; departing, thou hast swept
All with thee, like a storm ; dead is my father:
I too am dead to thee; thou dead and vanished.
My enemies—they laugh; and she, my mother,
Yet not my mother, is at her wits' end
With exultation; she, concerning whom
Thou oft hast sent me messengers, and said
That thou wouldst come in person, and with vengeance.
But thy most ill-starr'd fortune and my own
Have robb’d us of our hope and brought me back,
For thy dear person, ashes and a shade
Ah me ! ah me ! ah pitiable form 1
Ah! sent through paths of worst calamity,
Alas! my dearest! how hast thou destroy'd me!
Thou hast destroy'd me verily, dear brother 1
Then take me, take me with thee in thine urn ;
Me, who am nothing, blended with thyself
Who now art nothing, that I may hereafter
Dwell with thee in th’ invisible abyss:
And since we shared together all alike
Here in this upper world, so let me not,
When I am dead, fail of thy sepulchre :
I do not see that grief disturbs the dead.
252
CHORU. S.
Of mortal father born
Be thou discreet, Electra ! thy Orestes
Was also mortal; mourn not to excess;
We all must pay the debt of death.
O RESTE S.
Alas! alas! what shall I say ? where fix
Midst the perplexing words that crowd upon me
I am no longer master of my tongue.
ELECTRA.
What troubles thee or wherefore sayest thou this
ORESTES.
Is thine the noble person of Electra 2
ELECTIRA.
The very same; although in plight most wretched.
ORESTES.
Alas! for this calamitous event
ELECTRA.
Why this, O stranger ? why these sighs for me
253
ORESTES.
Maid' impiously, unworthily abused !
ELECTRA.
The object of thy piteous phrase am I.
ORESTES.
Ah! for thy hapless, unespoused condition
ELECTRA.
Why, stranger | dost thou groan and gaze upon me 3
ORESTES.
How little did I know of my misfortunes!
ELECTRA.
From what, that I have said, discern'st thou this
ORESTES.
Seeing thee thus in singular distresses.
ELECTRA.
And yet thou seest not half of what I suffer.
ORESTES.
How can I look on worse than what I see
254
ELECTRA.
I dwell, perforce, with murderers.
ORESTES.
How 2 with murderers ?
ELECTRA.
My father's murderers; forced to be their slave.
OIRESTIES.
Who drives thee on to this necessity ?
ELECTRA.
She who is call’d—ah ! how unlike 1–my mother.
O RESTES.
Say, by what usage 2 blows, or sordid fare
ELECTRA.
Blows and ill fare and every kind of outrage.
ORESTES.
And is there none to help or to prevent
ELECTRA.
None—he I had—his ashes are before me !
255
ORESTES.
Ill-fated maid! I gaze and pity thee!
ELECTRA.
Know—none has ever pitied me but thou.
ORESTES.
I sympathise alone with thy misfortunes.
ELECTRA.
Art thou a kinsman then P
ORESTES.
I would inform thee,
If these were friendly.
FLECTRA.
They are friendly : trust them.
ORESTEs, (reaching out his hands to the urn.)
Set down this urn, and thou shalt learn the whole.
ELECTRA.
Nay—by the gods ! treat me not thus, sweet stranger!
ORIESTES.
Yield to my voice, and thou shalt not repent it.
256
ELECTRA.
Stop!—on my knees—bereave me not of that
Which is most precious.-
ORESTES.
Nay, it must not be.
ELECTRA.
Oh my Orestes I, indeed, am wretched,
If they deprive me of thy very tomb
ORIESTES.
Speak not so hardly : these are sighs misplaced.
ELECTR. A.
May not my sighs be utter'd for my brother
O RESTES.
You speak not what you ought.
E LECTRA.
Am I unworthy
Of my dead brother ?
ORESTES.
Lady no, most worthy!
But this is none of thine.
257
ELECTRA.
It is, it is,
If that I hold the relics of Orestes.
ORIESTES.
Thou dost not: 'twas a flourish of my speech.
ELECTRA.
Oh ! where then is my wretched brother's tomb
ORESTES.
No where : the living do not want a tomb.
ELECTRA.
What sayest thou, youth
ORIESTES.
I speak no falsehood now.
ELECTRA.
Is he alive
ORESTES.
If I am so, he lives.
ELECTRA.
Hal art thou he
258
ORESTES.
Look thou upon this ring;
It was my father's : speak I truth, or no
ELECTRA.
Oh blessed day !
ORESTES.
Blest I confirm thy witness |
ELECTRA.
That voice—and art thou come *
ORIE STE S.
Seek me not elsewhere.
ELECTRA.
And do I clasp thee in these arms
ORIESTES.
For ever !
ELECTRA.
Oh dearest ladies! fellow country-women
See you Orestes, by this double plot,
Dead and alive 2
259
CHORUS.
We see it, gentle maiden
A tear of joy is stealing from our eyes.
ELECTRA.
Joy! joy! thou child, thou child of him I loved
Thou art return’d at last! yes, thou art come !
Yes, thou art met, and look'st on her thou sigh’dst for 1
ORESTES.
Yes—I am here; but wait—and wait in silence.
ELECTRA.
What dost thou mean *
ORIESTES.
Be still ; lest those within
O'er-hear us.
ELECTRA.
By the never-wedded Dian,
I cannot deign to tremble at the women
Who block these rooms with a superfluous load.
ORE STES.
Yet, look to it!—ev’n women have within
A fiery spirit; thou hast proved it once.
260
ELECTRA.
Oh! wo is me! thou bring'st it to my mind
In all its naked horror, our misfortune,
Which cannot be undone or blotted out.
ORESTIES.
I know it; but, when opportunity
Declares itself, this deed may be remembered.
ELECTRA.
All, all occasions are the same for me
To speak of this, as I, in justice, ought,
And scarce my tongue has gained its liberty.
ORESTIES.
I think with you; but rein this liberty.
ELECTRA.
How
ORESTES.
Give it not a loose, unless in season.
ELECTRA.
Who fitly could exchange these words for silence
261
When thou appear'st before me beyond hope
And expectation, when I gaze upon thee
[Pylades goes in at the porch of the palace.
O RESTES.
Thou seest me—since the gods urged my return.
ELECTRA.
Oh heavens ! thou tell'st me still more pleasing tidings;
If the gods bring thee home, blest is thy coming.
ORESTES.
I’m partly loth to give thy joy the curb,
And partly dread th’ excess of this thy transport.
ELECTRA.
Oh thou ! who, after such a tedious time
Took'st thy delightful journey, and hast deign'd
To bless my vision with thy darling presence—
If thou wouldst not behold me drown'd in sorrow,
ORESTES.
What should I do
262
ELECTRA.
Do not deprive me of thee—
The pleasure of thy sight—that I should lose thee.
O RESTES.
I should be angry if another thought it.
ELECTRA.
Thou wilt remain then
ORESTIES.
Wherefore should I not
ELECTRA.
Oh my sweet friends !—I've heard again the voice
I ne'er had hope to hear. Of late I held
My speechless anger, nor would utter aught
Of exclamation, while I heard and suffered.
But now I clasp thee: thou art in my sight
With that beloved countenance, which, in all
My sore afflictions, I could ne'er forget.
ORE STES.
Break off this useless parley: I am not
To learn how bad she is, we call our mother;
263
Nor that Ægisthus draws my father's wealth,
And pours it out to waste with heedless scattering;
Thy talk debars us from the time that serves;
But show me, rather, what befits th’ occasion:
How best, appearing openly, or ambush'd,
We now may find a way to stop the laughter
Of our light-hearted foes. Demean thyself
So that thy mother may not recognise
Thy gladden’d brow, when I the palace enter;
But give thy sobs a vent, as for these tidings,
Though told in falsehold. When we catch success,
We may allow our joy, and laugh in freedom.
ELECTRA.
Nay—oh my brother! that which pleases thee
Shall please me also : thou hast brought delight
To me, who could not win it of myself.
I would not, for my own particular gain,
Trouble thee in the least; I should not thus
Serve, as I ought, the power whose presence aids us.
What passes here thou know'st ; is it not so?
AEgisthus is abroad; at home my mother.
Fear not that she will see my face in smiles;
264
I feel the ancient inbred hate within me;
And, since I look’d upon thee, shall not cease
To weep—though they are tears of joy. For how
Should I refrain, who saw thee, thus, at once
Dead and alive Thou hast accomplish’d wonders:
Nay—if my father should return alive,
I should not deem the sight a prodigy,
But should believe I saw him. Thou hast reach'd me
By such a wondrous path, 'tis surely fitting
That thou dispose the matter to thy mind; .
Stood I alone, I would not from th’ attempt
Shrink, but would die with honour or be free.
ORE STE S.
Beseech you—silence for I hear the step,
Within, of some one passing through the doors.
ELECTRA, (to Orestes and attendants.)
Enter, oh strangers' bearers of a gift
Which may no inmate of this house reject,
Nor yet accept with an ill-omen’d joy.
PYLADES enters from the palace.
Oh! most infatuate and deprived of sense !
265
Set ye no greater value on your lives,
Or have ye not innate the power of reason,
That, when ye stand, I will not say most near,
Fast in the jaws of peril, great and pressing,
Ye have no knowledge Had I not kept close
The door, your machinations would have reach'd
The inner mansion, ere yourselves could enter.
But, as it is, I have opposed to this
My own precaution. Leave this prolix talk,
And this immoderate burst of joy, and enter |
To linger in conjunctures such as this
Is fatal : 'tis the crisis of deliverance.
ORIESTES.
How stand affairs within, if I should enter?
PYLADES.
As thou could'st wish : there is not one could know thee.
ORESTES.
Didst thou report me dead, as was befitting f
PY L.A.D.E.S.
Assure thee—thou art dead, though standing here.
266
ORESTES.
Rejoice they at these tidings, or what say they
PYLA DES.
When all is done, I'll tell thee. Now suffice it,
That all goes well, ev'n that which seemeth ill.
ELECTRA.
Beseech you tell me, who is this my brother.
ORESTIES.
And know'st thou not?
FILECTRA.
I cannot ev'n conjecture.
ORIESTIES.
Thou know'st not to whose hands thou gavest me once 2
ELECTRA.
To whose 2–what say'st thou ?
ORESTIES.
His l—by whom thy foresight
Sent me by stealth into the land of Phocis.
267
ELECTRA.
Ah is this he, the only faithful found
Among the many, when my father bled 2
ORE STE S.
The same, assure thee: thou may’st spare thy questions.
E LECTRA.
Oh blessed day ! sole pillar of the house
Of Agamemnon, say, how camest thou hither
And art thou he, who from so many ills
Hast saved myself and him Oh dearest hands !
Most pleasant service of those willing feet !
Why didst thou first deceive me on thy coming,
And not declare thyself, but kill me rather
With words, although reserving deeds to bless me !
Bail father!—for methinks I see my father—
All hail!—but know that of all men the most
I, in one day, have hated thee and loved thee.
PYLADES.
Enough—the broken theme of our discourse
Unnumber'd nights and days in equal round
Will, sure, repair, and show thee plain, Electra !
268
But I repeat to you, who stand and hear me,
Now is the time of action: Clytemnestra
Is now alone : there is no soul within :
But, if ye still procrastinate, reflect
Ye then will fight the battle with opponents
More on their prudent guard and more in number.
ORESTIES.
There is no need, my Pylades 1 to waste
Time in more words; but let us pass within
On our best speed, adoring the abode
Of my paternal gods, that guard the porch.
[Orestes and Pylades enter the palace.
ELECTIRA.
Oh king Apollo! mercifully hear them,
And me with them who, with my utmost means,
Have paid thee offering from a liberal hand.
Lycaean Phoebus ! now, 'tis all I can,
I beg thee, fall before thee, and beseech thee!
Be thou our ready helper in these plans;
And manifest to men the penalty
Of impious actions, such as gods award them.
[Goes in.
269
CHORUS.
Look you, where he stalks before,
Mars resistless, breathing gore,
See the roofs are closing o'er
The sure-track'd dogs of hell;
Train’d by the furies to explore
The plots of mischief fell :
Not long the dream will halt behind
That hung o'er my prophetic mind.
See th’ avenger of the dead
Disappear with stealthy tread,
Th’ ancestral roof is o'er his head,
He grasps the whetted blade;
And Hermes has his footsteps led,
And wrapp'd the fraud in shade;
He lingers not, but, beckoning on,
Points to the goal the fated son.
ELECTRA re-enters from the palace.
Dearest of women they are now about it;
Do ye keep silent.
270
CHORUS.
How what is't they do?
ELECTRA.
She trims the bowl for her own funeral feast,
And they are close beside her.
CHORUS.
What dost thou
Without the gates ?
ELECTRA.
To watch, for fear AEgisthus
Should enter and surprise us.
CLYTEMNESTRA, (within.)
Wo, alas !
Assassins fill the house and I am helpless
ELECTRA.
Hear ye not dearest friends one shrieks within.
CHORUS.
I hear what I should not, and, hearing, shudder.
27 |
CLYTEMNESTRA, (within.)
Ah me unhappy where art thou AEgisthus
ELECTRA.
Hark! some one cries again
CLYTEMNESTRA, (within.)
My child ! my child !
Pity the womb that bare thee.
ELECTRA.
Yet from thee
Orestes found no pity nor his father.
CIHORUS.
O city doom'd 1 oh wretched lineage' now
Fate, day by day,
Destroys, destroys you, till ye waste and perish
CLYTEMNESTRA, (within.)
Ah me! I’m stricken'
ELECTRA.
If thy arm be strong,
Strike yet again.
272
CLYTEMNESTRA, (within.)
Alas! again I’m stricken
E I, ECTRA.
Would that Ægisthus also felt the wound !
CHORUS.
Thy curses are accomplish'd. They who lay
Beneath the earth, they live; the buried dead
Drain from their murderer's veins the streaming blood.
[Orestes and Pylades enter.
FLECTRA,
Ha! they are here. Thy crimson’d hand, Orestes!
Distils the life-drops of thy firstling victim :
But how it fares, ’tis not for me to say.
O RESTES.
For all within the house exceeding well;
Unless Apollo's prophecy be void,
The wretched woman is at her last gasp :
Thou need'st not, henceforth, fear a mother's spleen
Will shamefully entreat thee.
273
CHORUS.
Peace! break off—
AEgisthus is in sight.
ELIECTRA.
Retire, O youths
The man draws near, glad-hastening from the suburb.
CHORUS.
Go, quick, behind the gates. What ye have done
Is well achieved. Complete the rest as well.
ORESTIES.
Trust me—it shall succeed to thy desire.
IELECTRA.
Away!—
ORESTES.
I’m gone already.
[Goes in with Pylades.
ELECTRA.
What is here
Now to be done shall be my own concern.
T
274
CHORUS.
'Twere best bespeak him fair, that he may rush,
Blindly, upon the snare of retribution.
AEGISTHUS 677ters.
Which of you knows where lodge the Phocian
strangers,
Who bring the news, they tell me, that Orestes
Is dash'd to pieces in a chariot-race
Thee, thee I ask; thee, who wert, late, so fierce;
Thee it should most concern; thou best canst say.
IELECTRA.
I know ; for did I not, I should be strange
Ev’n to the loss of him I loved the best.
AEGISTH U.S.
Where, then, are these same strangers? come, inform me.
ELECTRA.
Within : they meet there with a friendly hostess.
AEGISTHUS.
Do they report then truly he is dead
275
ELECTRA.
Not so; they bear with them not words, but proofs
Of ocular appeal.
AEGISTH U S.
Are they within
My reach, that I may satisfy my eyes
ELECTR.A.
They are ; I do not envy thee the sight.
AEGISTIHUS.
Thou speak'st, against thy custom, to rejoice me.
ELECTRA.
If this can give thee joy, thou may’st rejoice.
AEGISTHUS.
Silence 1 at my command; and be the gates
Thrown wide, that all of Argos and Mycenae
May see at once; if any of the people
Have, late, been buoyed up by an empty hope,
Let him but look on that man's corse, and take
The curb of my authority; nor rouse
His mind to violence, and feel my hand.
276
ELECTRA.
Be this my province ; for, at length, I’ve learn'd
To yield consent to those who are the mightiest.
[Opens the gates; the body of Clytemnestra is discovered
within, a mantle thrown over it.
AEGISTHIUS.
O Jovel I see a spectacle, which, late,
I languish'd to behold, presented to me.
If I provoke th’ avenging power, I wish
The words unsaid. Bare all the face, that I,
As suits a kinsman, may bewail the dead.
ORESTES.
Uplift the veil thyself; it is thy part,
Not mine, to view the corse and greet it kindly.
AEGISTHUS.
Thou sayest well : I’ll do as thou advisest;
If Clytemnestra keeps the mansion, call her.
ORIESTIES.
She is beside thee : look not for her elsewhere.
AEGISTHUS, (removing the mantle from the dead body.)
Ah ! what is this I see
277
ORESTES.
Whom dost thou fear 2
Whose are the features that escape thy knowledge 2
AEGISTIH U.S.
Wretch that I am into what hands, what nets
Am I now fallen
O RESTES.
Feel'st thou not already
That thou, alive, conversest with the dead 2
AEGISTH U.S.
Alas! I know the meaning of thy words;
It must be—’tis Orestes who accosts me.
ORESTES.
Excellent prophet ! thou wert, lately, wrong.
AEGISTHUS.
Ah wretch!—I am undone: yet let me speak
A few short words.
ELECTRA.
No—not another word—
I do beseech you by the gods, my brother
Let him not eke the time in speech. What wretch,
278
About to die, but counts it gain to win
A brief delay in his extremity
Put him to death on th’ instant, and deliver
To the embalmers their fit perquisite,
And take him from our sight; for this alone
Can recompense me for my former wrongs.
ORESTEs, (to AEgisthus.)
Go in, and speedily. There is no question
Of speech, but of thy life.
AEGISTIHU S.
Why would'st thou lead me
Within the chamber 2 If this deed of thine
Show in thine eyes so fair, what need of darkness
Were it not easy to dispatch me here
ORESTES.
Thou canst not now command : go to the place
Where thou didst kill my father, and die there.
AEGISTIHU S.
It must needs be—this roof must see the woes
Of Pelops’ line, those present and to come.
279
ORESTES.
Thine own, be sure; in this I am thy prophet.
AEGISTHUS.
The art thou boastest of was not thy father's.
ORESTES.
Thou brawlest still, and dost retard my path;
Go forward.
AEGISTH U S.
Lead the way.
ORESTES.
Go thou before me.
AEGISTH U.S.
Fear'st thou that I should fly?
ORESTES.
Lest thou should'st find
Too sweet a death, I make thy cup thus bitter.
280
FROM THE OR E STE.S.
EURIPIDEs.
ELECTRA watching by the couch of ORESTEs. To her HELEN enters
jollowed by HERMIone.
HELEN.
DAUGHTER of Clytemnestra and Atrides!
Too long a virgin, sad Electra ! say
How fares it with thee now, and with thy brother
Orestes, the poor wretch, who slew his mother ?
I do not fear pollution from thy converse,
Since to Apollo I transfer the crime.
Yet must I mourn the fate of Clytemnestra,
My sister, whom I saw not when I sail'd
For Troy, howe'er it happen'd that I sail'd,
Stung by some heaven-sent frenzy: but I feel
Her loss, and cannot chuse but weep her fortune.
281
ELECTRA.
Oh Helen what, what shall I say to thee *
Thou art a near eye-witness to the woes
Of Agamemnon's children. Here I sit
Sleepless, and tend a miserable corse—
For he is little better than a corse,
Gasping for breath; I do not aggravate
His misery. Happy as thou art with him
Thy happy husband, ye are visitors
Of those, who fare most wretchedly.
HELEN.
How long
Has he lain thus, thrown prostrate on the bed 2
ELECTRA.
Since he dispatched our mother.
HELEN.
Oh, lost man'
And she, that bore him, what a death she suffer'd
ELECTRA.
In such a strait I sink beneath my sorrows.
282
HELEN.
One thing, oh maiden | I conjure you grant me.
ELECTRA.
What leisure have I, nursing my sick brother
HEI.E.N.
Indulge my wish—visit my sister's tomb.
ELECTIRA.
My mother's, wouldst thou say? and what thy purpose?
H ELEN.
Take my clipp'd locks, and pour my grave-libation.
EI, ECTRA.
Should'st thou not visit thy own sister's grave?
HELEN.
I blush to show my person to the Greeks.
FILECTRA.
Too late discreet, for shameless thy elopement.
HELEN.
Thou speak'st of me most truly—but not kindly.
283
ELECTRA,
Why should'st thou blush to meet the Mycenaeans ?
HELEN.
I dread the fathers of the slain at Troy.
ELECTRA.
The Argives, too, cry terribly against thee.
HELEN.
Then ease me of this fear; do me this grace.
ELECTRA.
I cannot look upon my mother's grave.
HELEN.
A female slave were not a seemly bearer.
ELECTRA.
Then why not send Hermione, thy daughter
HELEN.
To walk in public ill becomes a virgin.
ELECTRA.
"Twere a return to the deceased, who reared her.
284
HELEN.
Thou hast well said, and I consent, oh maiden
To send my daughter; for thy words have reason.
Hermione ! my child! go from the house
Carrying the tomb-libations, and these locks,
And, coming to the grave of Clytemnestra,
Drop there the frothy wine, the milk and honey,
And, standing on the mount, address these words:
“Thy sister Helen sends thee these grave-offerings;
She ventures not tº approach thy monument,
Fearing the Argive multitude.” Conjure
That she be mild to me and to my husband,
And to thyself, and to those wretched beings,
Thus by a god undone; and what behoves
Of duty to be rendered to a sister,
Promise from me in presents for the dead.
Go, haste my child; and, having laid the offering
Upon the tomb, retrace thy footsteps quickly.
[They go out.
ELECTRA.
Oh natural gifts ye are to men a mischief!
Healthful to those alone who use you well.
285
See, how she clips her tresses at the points,
Still to be charming ! the same woman still.
Ah! may the gods abhor thee, thou destroyer
Of me and him and Greece Ah wretched me !
But, at my lamentations, they approach,
My sympathising friends, and, presently,
They will disturb him from his quiet sleep :
And they will dim my eyes with tears, to see
My frantic brother. Softly, dearest ladies'
In your approach; tread lightly; make no noise;
I take your friendship kindly to myself,
But, were he waked, it would be sore affliction.
CHORUS OF YOUNG DAMSEI.S.
Softly, softly gliding o'er,
Let our sandals press the floor,
Light and noiseless be our tread.
E1LECTRA.
Far, far off!—avoid the bed.
CHORUS.
See, we heed thee.
286
EI, ECTRA.
Whisper low,
As through reeds the breezes blow.
CHORUS.
Hush'd the converse which we keep,
As the sounds that lull to sleep.
ELECTRA.
Low—’tis well—thus murmur low—
Silent come and silent go;
Why ye come impart to me;
Long he slumbers, as you see.
CHORUS.
How, dear lady fares it say—
IELECTRA.
What can these poor lips convey
But mishap, a tale of death
Still he breathes, but pants for breath.
CHORUS.
Say'st thou? wretched youth !
287
ELECTRA.
He dies
Should ye ope those drooping eyes,
As lapt in sweetest sleep he lies.
CHORUS.
Ah! unhappy for the deed
Thou hast done, by heaven decreed;
Ah unhappy! for the woes
That bereave thee of repose !
ELECTRA.
Wol alas!—unjust was he,
When unrighteous prophecy,
As with shrieking voice he spoke,
From pure Themis' tripod broke;
And prescribed my fated brother
The lawless murder of a mother
CHORUS.
See, he moves the covering vest,
Tossing in his broken rest
FLECTRA.
Luckless lady thou hast spoken
Rudely, and his rest is broken.
288
CHORUS,
I had deem’d his slumber fast.
ELECTRA.
Will ye not depart at last,
Treading softly as ye go
CHORUS.
Nay, he sleepeth.
ET,ECTRA.
Aye, ’tis so.
CIHORUS.
Oh night ! oh solemn night!
That sheddest sleep
On trouble-wearied eyes;
From Erebus' still deep
On downy wing
Arise, arise !
O'er Agamemnon’s house thy shadows fling !
To our misfortunes and our griefs a prey
We are consumed, consumed away !
ELECTRA.
See, ye break the silence.
289
CHORUS.
Nay.
ELECTRA.
Soft, soft, turn thy face away,
Dearest friend that not a word
In its echo may be heard
Where his lids in slumber close;
Leave him—leave him to repose !
CIHORUS.
Tell me—what can end his pain
ELECTRA.
Death—what else 2–we bear in vain
Bread, that should his life sustain.
CHORUS.
Death appears before his eyes.
ELECTRA.
We are fallen a sacrifice
To the god, who doom'd to flow
Her blood, that laid our father low.
U
290
CHORUS
Just, but yet inglorious, blow.
ELECTRA.
Mother! that bore me ! thou didst shed
My father's blood, and thou art dead
But thou within that father's tomb
Hast dragg'd the children of thy womb.
We perish—yea, we perish all
In one promiscuous funeral.
For thou art with the dead, and we
Are like to those who dwell with thee.
My life departs, my wasted years
Languish in groans and midnight tears;
Husband or child consoles me never;
See what a wretched life I drag for ever !
CHORUS.
Draw near to him, Electra ! look upon
The couch whereon he lies; he may be gone,
And scape thy watchfulness; it likes me not
Where the stretch'd limbs hang loose as those I see.
291
ORESTES.
Oh sleep! oh friendly balm relief from pain
How pleasant is thy seasonable coming !
Oh blest oblivion of calamities,
How wise thou art 1 oh wish’d-for goddess! thou
That hearest the prayer of those unfortunate
Whence did I come, and how did I come hither ?
I have forgot the past—my mind has wandered.
ELECTRA.
Oh dearest ! thou hast fallen asleep; this glads me;
Shall I now touch thee tenderly and raise thee
ORIESTIES.
Yes—raise me, raise me : wipe the clammy foam
From my spent lips; the moisture from my eyelids.
ELECTRA.
See—'tis my pleasant duty; nor refuse I
To tend thy person with my sister hands.
ORE STES.
Lie down beside me : part the matted hair
That hides my face; I scarce can see the light.
292
ELECTRA.
How thy poor head is tangled with its locks!
How haggard look'st thou, to the bath a stranger!
ORE STE S.
Lay me again upon the couch ; the fit
Of frenzy leaves me weak, and my limbs fail me.
ELECTRA.
See how his bed is welcome to the patient
Irksome possession | yet he needs must keep it.
ORESTIES.
Place me again upright and lean me forward.
CHORUS.
Fastidious are the sick, beset with wants.
ELECTRA.
Say, wilt thou set thy feet upon the floor
With slow alternate steps ? change best refreshes.
OIRESTIES.
Aye—though this be not health, it hath the semblance;
The semblance pleaseth, though we miss the substance.
293
ELECTRA.
Hark, now, dear brother while the furies spare thee!
ORESTES.
What hast thou new 2–if good, it will be welcome ;
If evil, I’ve enough of ills already.
ELECTRA.
Thy uncle, Menelaus, is arrived;
His galley anchors in the port of Nauplia.
ORESTES.
Ha! comes he as a light to our misfortunes
He, who has known the bounty of my father ?
ELECTRA.
He comes; that you may trust my tidings, know
He brings his Helen from the walls of Troy.
ORIESTES.
Were he alone, he might be envied more ;
Leading his wife, he brings a mischief with him.
E LECTRA.
Aye—for from Tyndarus a race of daughters
Sprang, the reproach and infamy of Greece.
294
ORESTES.
Be thou unlike those vile ones; for thou may'st;
Arraign them not in speech, but in thy heart.
ELECTRA.
Ah me! my brother how thine eye rolls troubled ! .
Thy rage is coming on, though sane but now.
ORESTES.
Oh mother | I beseech thee set not on me
Those snake-haired women, dabbled all in blood |
'Tis they—’tis they—they leap upon me now !
ELECTRA.
Rest thou, poor sufferer ' tranquil in thy bed;
Thou think'st thou clearly seest them, yet seest nothing.
ORESTES.
They'll kill me, Phoebus!—those grim goddesses,
Dog-visaged, gorgon-eyed, hell's priestesses!
ELECTRA.
I will not let thee go, but twine my hands
Around thee, and prevent thy cruel leaps.
295
ORESTES.
Ha!—loose me—thou art one of those my furies;
Thou clasp'st my waist to cast me down to hell.
ELECTRA.
Oh wretched that I am how shall I aid
In his distress —the god is most unfriendly.
O RESTIES.
Give me the horn-tipp'd bow, Apollo's gift,
To drive the furies, when they scare me, hence.
ELECTRA.
Can gods be wounded by a mortal hand
ORESTES.
Aye—if they will not vanish from my eyes.
Hear ye not?—see ye not—how the notch'd arrow
Twangs on the quivering bowstring, ere it fly
Hal—wherefore loiter ye mount on your wings
Into the sky; accuse his oracles.—
Ah! wherefore do I faint why does my breath
Gasp in quick pants how came it that I sprang
Wide from the couch —the storm subsides—'tis calm
Why weep'st thou sister! nestling thus thy cheek
296
Within my bosom's vesture ? I am shamed
To make thee share my sufferings, and afflict
Thy virgin softness with my malady.
Pine not for what I suffer: thou, indeed,
Consentedst, but the murder of my mother
Was my own act; Apollo is to blame,
Who urged me on to this impiety,
Giving me mere lip-comfort, and none else.
I think, if, in the presence of my father,
I could have ask'd if I should slay my mother,
He would have clasp'd my knees with many prayers,
Adjuring me never to plunge my sword
Into my mother's breast; since not the more
Would he return to light, and I myself
Should draw upon my head such woes as these.
But come, my sister | muffle not thy face,
And dry thy tears, all wretched though I be:
And when thou seest me wandering in my mind,
Restrain and soothe my wild, disordered reason:
And, when thou weep'st, I, as I ought, in turn
Will sit beside thee, thy most kind adviser:
Friends owe this tender office to each other.
But, my poor sister 1 hie thee to thy chamber,
297
And lay thee down and close thy sleepless eyes:
Take, also, food and the refreshing bath ;
For if I were to lose thee, and, by watching
At my bed-side, thou wert thyself to languish,
I were, indeed, undone; thou art my only
Helper; for all, but thou, thou seest, desert me.
ELECTRA.
It shall not be: it is my choice to die
or live with thee: to me it is the same.
For, should'st thou die, what would become of me,
A helpless woman lonely as I am,
What should protect me brother have I none,
Father, nor friends !—but I will do thy bidding,
Since thou wilt have it so. Rest thou, meanwhile,
Reclined upon the couch, and do not yield
To the panic fears that start thee from thy bed,
But keep thy posture firmly ; though, in truth,
Thou wert not ill, yet if thy fancy deemed so,
The pain and mortal weakness must be thine.
CHORUS.
Wo, wo is me!—all hail and hear,
Tremendous goddesses! that spring
298
Aloft on indefatigable wing;
Ye ebon-visaged furies' revelling
In orgies, where, for Bacchus' cheer,
Deepens the groan and drops the tear;
Who, harrowing in your sweep th’ expanded air,
Wreak vengeance on the head
Of him whose hand with murder-stains is red;
Accept, accept, my prayer, my prayerſ
Suffer Agamemnon’s son
To lose his wandering rage, and be his penance done !
Ah! for the sufferings thou hast known
They reach thee still, they press thee down;
Since from the tripod burst the yell
Of Phoebus' shrieking oracle,
As, in the centre of the wood,
Thy feet upon the holiest pavement stood.
Oh Jove 1 oh mercy ] see
What struggles from that murder cleave to thee,
And try with potent agony
Some evil genius seems to brood
Above these roofs, and mingles tear on tear;
He sprinkles round thy mother's blood,
And this torments thee on thy living bier.
299
I mourn for thee, I mourn for thee,
But thus the mightiest pride of state must be ;
The demon whirls aloft the sail,
While skims the bark before the gale;
Griefs, like a sea, come rushing o'er,
Plunged in the gorging waves, she sinks—to rise no more!
HOMER'S HYMN TO CERES.
303
HYMN TO C E R. E.S.
WITH Ceres of the flowing locks, august
Goddess, I would begin my song; with her
And her proud-pacing daughter, whom stern Pluto
Ravish'd away; the wide-discerning Jove,
Who launches the deep thunder, yielded her—
Far from the golden-throned, fair-fruitaged queen :
She played the while with broad-zoned ocean-maids,
And gather'd flowers; the beauteous violets,
Crocus and roses, through the velvet mead;
And yellow-flowering flags, and hyacinths:
Narcissus too, which earth produced, a snare
To lure the rose-bud-visaged maid, and please
Hell's all-receiving god. Miraculous
That gladdening flower, and all that looked thereon,
Were they immortal gods or mortal men,
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Gazed as in muse of wonder : from its root
A hundred blooms upgrew ; the whole wide heaven
Above, th’ expanded earth and the salt surge
That heaved the sea, with breathing odour laugh’d.
She, in a trance of rapture, stoop’d and spread
Both her extended hands, as she would reach
The goodly toy. But then the broad-track'd earth
Yawn'd in the midst asunder, on that plain
Of Nysa ; and the king of hell, the son
Of Saturn, many-titled, upward sprang
On his immortal coursers through th' abyss ;
And snatching her sore-struggling, drew her down,
Lamenting shrill, within his golden car.
She strait shrieked out aloud, and with strain’d voice
Call'd on her sire, the highest and the best ;
That voice no mortal nor immortal ear
Heard; nor her own companions, fair of form ;
Save the bland daughter of Persaeus; she,
Who still with glossy fillets binds her hair,
Hecaté, far within her grotto heard :
The solar king, Hyperion's beamy son,
He, also, heard the damsel, when she call’d
Upon her father Jove: who sate, apart
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From all the deities, within his fane,
Receiving many prayers and incense-smoke
From rites of mortals. Her, resisting thus,
The uncle-god, with Jove's intelligence,
Imperial Pluto, many-titled son
Of Saturn, dragg’d upon his deathless steeds.
Ilong as the goddess-virgin could behold
The earth and planetary heaven, the sea
With fishy tides full-flowing, the sun's blaze,
So long she hoped to see her mother dear,
Or one, near-passing, of th’ immortal tribes:
So long, though grieved, hope lull'd her mighty mind.
Meanwhile the tops of mountains rang; the depths
Of ocean thrill'd to that immortal voice;
And her majestic mother heard it too.
Quick anguish seized upon her heart; she rent
With her own hands the fillet that enwreathed
Her undecaying tresses; then athwart
Her shoulders cast a mantle sable-blue,
And, bird-like, flitted fast o'er moist and dry,
Exploring. But nor god, nor mortal man
Would tell her of the truth; nor angel bird
X.
306
Sooth-speaking meet her on her onward way.
Nine days the stately goddess through the earth
Wandered, two sparkling torches in her grasp,
Nor tasted once the nectar's beverage sweet,
Nor cates ambrosial, mourner as she was,
Nor plunged her body in the fountain baths.
But, when the truth-resplendent morning rose
Upon her, Hecate then cross'd her path,
Bearing a lamp within her hands, and spake
Clear her announcement; “Ceres' most august
That bring'st the summer, splendid in thy gifts
Who of celestial gods or mortal men
Has borne away thy Proserpine, and wrung
Thy soul with anguish For I heard a voice,
But saw not with mine eyes who this might be :
All, that my hurried speech imparts, is true.”
So Hecaté ; her answered not a word
The long-hair’d Rhea's daughter, but with her
Rush'd on, the blazing torch in either grasp ;
They to the sun drew nigh, whose glance surveys
Both gods and men, and stood before his steeds.
Then question'd him the noble goddess: “Hail!
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Oh Sun' and as a goddess honour me,
If e'er by word or work I soothed thy heart;
My daughter—whom I bare—my sweetest branch,
My glory and my beauty—I have heard
Her troubled voice along the desart air,
As torn away, but saw not with mine eyes.
Thou o'er the span of earth and o'er the sea
Look'st from Jove's ether with thy rays; then speak
Truth to my question; if that any-where
Thou hast beheld what god or man is he
Who, bearing far from me my child beloved,
Reluctant to his ravishing grasp, hath fled ”
She said; and thus replied Hyperion's son;
“Daughter of long-haired Rhea queenly Ceres'
All shall be known to thee; for I revere
And greatly pity thee, who grievest the loss
Of this thy daughter, graceful in her steps.
There is no other god to blame, save he,
Cloud-gatherer Jove, who to his brother Pluto
Has given her, to be call'd his blooming bride.
He, snatching her athwart the murky gloom,
Dragg’d her upon his horses, shrieking loud.
But goddess! stay thy mighty grief; to nurse
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Measureless anger rashly and in vain
Becomes thee not : for no ignoble son
Amongst immortals is imperial Pluto,
Brother and kinsman; since to him hath fall’n
The lot, when erst the triple realm was shared,
That he should dwell with those, o'er whom he's king.”
He said, and cheered his steeds; they, at the shout,
Sprang with the car, like birds upon the wing.
But her a grief more vehement and keen
Invaded, mind and soul; and then, incensed
With the cloud-blackening Jove, she left her seat
Vacant in heavenly council, and, withdrawn
Apart, from high Olympus took her way
To human cities and luxuriant tilth;
Her charms defacing with the weight of years.
Of men or broad-zoned women, who had look’d
Upon her form, not one could recognise :
Till now she reach'd the house of Celeus sage,
King o'er Eleusis' incense-fuming plains.
Afflicted in her inmost heart, she sate
Beside the way, fast by a virgin well,
Whence drew the city-dwellers, in the shade ;
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For overhead an olive sapling grew ;
Like to an age-bow'd matron, now debarr'd
The fruits of marriage and wreathed Venus' gifts;
Such as the nurses, who the children rear
Born to law-giving kings, directresses
Who rule the echoing mansion with their voice.
Her Celeus' daughters saw, what time they came
Beside the yielded waters, which they drew
In brazen vases for their father's house :
Four, like to goddesses, in virgin bloom,
Callidice, Cleisidice, fair Demo,
And, eldest of them all, Callithūe.
They saw, but knew her not; the face of gods
Is hard to be discern’d by mortal eyes.
But, standing nigh, they greet her with swift words:
“Who, whence art thou ? dame of the men of old 2
Why went'st thou from the city, nor draw'st nigh
The houses, where in shady chambers they
Of thy own age abide, and younger women,
Who, with kind speech and act might welcome thee *
They said; and these the goddess' answering words;
“Dear children strangers of soft woman-kind!
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Hail!—I will speak: it shall become me well
To meet your questions with the words of truth.
Doris the name my honour'd mother gave ;
And now from Crete, o'er the broad face of sea,
I, undesiring, came ; a pirate band
Forced me reluctant; soon at Thoricum
In their swift ship they touch'd; the women, throng’d,
Trod the main land; they near the hawsers spread
Their viands. But my soul no dainty fare
Desired; with stealthy step I broke away
Through the main land's dark soil, and thus escaped
My haughty lords, lest haply they might sell
Their unbought slave, and revel in my cost.
So came I hither, wandering ; nor yet know
What land it be, or who inhabit it.
Now may the dwellers in th’ Olympian halls
Grant you both youthful husbands and fair babes
As parents wish ! but, damsels' pity me
Kindly, dear children' till I reach the house
Of man and woman, ready with my hands
To labour for them, whatsoever works
May suit an aged woman. I would rear
A new-born infant, dandled in my arms,
31]
And spread the couch in my lord's massive chamber,
And teach the females their embroidery-tasks.”
The goddess said; and thus the virgin chaste
Callidice, the fairest of the fair;
“O nurse ! the dispensations of the gods,
Though grieving with the burthen, men must bear;
The gods are stronger; but I will instruct
Thee clearly; and will name the ruling chiefs,
The great ones of the people, who protect
Our city's walls with counsels and just laws.
Here dwells Triptolemus the sage, and there
Diocles; Polyxenus here, and there
Noble Eumolpus, and here Dolichus,
And there our valiant father. Of all these
Their wives maintain the household-state, nor one
Would scorn thy person, though at hasty glance,
And thrust thee from the door, but welcome thee:
For thou art like some goddess. An thou wilt
Remain, the while we seek our father's house;
And to our beauteous mother Metanira
All, in its order, tell, if, haply, she
May bid thee to her mansion, nor permit
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Thy quest of other dwelling-place. A son,
Late-born, in her compacted chamber lies,
With many wishes sought, with joy embraced ;
If thou wilt rear him up, and he attain
The measure of his youth, she of thy sex,
Who sees thee, well may envy; such thy meed.”
She spoke ; the goddess bent her head, and they,
Filling their shining pitchers from the springs,
Cheerily bore them thence; and swift they reach'd
Their father's spacious house, and all, whate'er
They heard and saw, unto their mother told.
She, instant, sent them forth, to bid the dame
With measureless reward. They—as the deer,
Or heifers in the vernal season, full
With pasture, o'er the meadow leap with bounds,-
Gathering the foldings of their graceful robes,
Went, hastening to the hollow wain-worn way:
Their flowing locks around their shoulders waved
Tossing, in hue like crocus flowers; they found
By the way side, where they had left her late,
The famous goddess; her they forthwith led
To the dear dwelling of their sire ; but she,
3.13
Behind them, sore afflicted in her heart,
Walk'd with veil'd head; the sable mantle trail'd
With hollow rustling round her slender feet.
Straight came they to Jove-foster'd Celeus' gates,
And through the portal pass'd to where, beside
The solid couch’s pillar, sate erect
The highly honour'd mother; on her lap
The babe, the new-sprung blossom ; towards her ran
The virgins; but the goddess set her feet
Across the threshold, and behold ! she touch'd
The roof-beam with her head, and through the doors
Flash'd a dilated splendour, not of earth.
The mother shame and awe and trembling pale
Seized, and she left her seat and bade her sit.
But summer-bringing Ceres, bright of gifts,
Was loth to sit upon the shining couch ;
But speechless stood, with her fair downcast eyes,
Till the discreet Iambe placed a stool
Firm-join'd, and o'er it cast a white-woven fleece;
There sitting, with her hands she round her drew
The veil; long speechless, she afflicted sate
Upon the stool, unoccupied by word
Or act, without a smile, her lips untouch'd
3] 4
By food or beverage, pining with desire
Of her full-bosom'd daughter, sad she sate:
Till the discreet Iambe, chiding her
With many railleries, turn'd the chaste, dread queen
To smiles and laughter and a cheerful mind;
And, from that hour, she by her manners charm'd.
Then Metanira, filling to the brim
A cup with luscious wine, presented it;
But she refused; and said within herself,
“To drink the red wine were unlawful yet:”
But bade them mix a potion for her drink
Of meal and water and the pounded herb :
She the mixed beverage, as commanded, brought;
The goddess, most august, took of her own :
Then Metanira, elegantly-zoned,
Thus greeted her; “Hail lady for I deem
Thou dost not spring from base, but noble, parents;
Since in thine eyes a grace and modesty
Shine forth, as of a law-dispensing prince.
Th’ allotments of the deities, mankind,
Though grieving, needs must bear, and feel the yoke.
But, since thou art come hither, all of good
I have is thine. Rear only this my son,
315
Whom late of birth, unhoped for, the immortals
Have sent me, and he is most precious to me.
If thou should'st rear him up, and he attain
His youth's maturity, all of thy sex
May envy; such thy nurture's recompense.”
To her then Ceres, of the corn-wreathed hair;
“And thou, O lady' hail—and may the gods
Shower down their bounties on thee; willingly
I undertake thy son, and will uprear
As bidden. Not, I trust, a nurse unskill’d,
That aught of charm or scath should hurt the boy.
I know a sovran antidote ; I know
An amulet 'gainst incantations proof.”
Thus having said, in her immortal hands
Received, she laid him on her balmy breast.
The mother's heart was glad : and so she reared
Wise Celeus' goodly son, Demophēon,
Whom Metanira, shaped in beauty, bore
Within the mansion. He in stature throve
As though he were a god; nor eating corn,
Nor sucking at the breast. For Ceres bathed
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His limbs in oil ambrosial, like a child
Of deity, and sweetly breathed on him,
And foster'd in her breast. By night, she hid
The infant, as he were a brand, within
The strength of circling fire; though unperceived
Of its own parents. But to them he seemed
A prodigy, of godlike-vigorous growth :
And she had made him proof 'gainst age and death,
But that the beauteous Metanira, fond,
Lay on the watch by night, and stole a glance
From forth her perfumed bed, and shrieked and smote
Upon her thigh, affrighted for her son:
“Oh son Demophēon our guest has hid thee
Amidst much fire; grief, care, and wo to me !”
She spoke in lamentation, and was heard
By Ceres, holy goddess, who, incensed,
The darling son, whom she, unhoped, had borne
Within the mansion, snatching from the fire,
With her immortal hands, laid on the earth :
Chafed grievously in spirit, and address'd
Fair Metanira : “Ignorant and rash,
Ye sons of men l of good or ill to come
317
Alike unconscious !—thou, too, folly-struck
Hast wrought thy harm : for bear me witness, Styx'
The unrelenting river ! I had made
Thy darling son superior to decay,
Immortal, and had crown'd with fadeless glory;
But now he may not 'scape the fates and death.
Yet is imperishable honour his,
For that he rested on these knees, and slept
Within mine arms. But, when the times are ripe,
And years roll round, Eleusis' sons shall wage
Grave battle with him, striving all his days.
I am the honour’d Ceres; who bring joy
And gain to mortals and immortal gods.
Come therefore; let thy people build me up
A temple and an altar underneath,
Below the city and the lofty wall,
Upon the beetling cliff, that overhangs
The fount Callichorus; myself will teach
The orgies, that, in time to come, with dues
Of sacrifice ye may appease my mind.”
So spake the goddess; and, at once transform’d,
Changed both her shape and stature; her old age
3.18
Cast off, around and round her beauty breathed;
Ravishing odour from her fragrant robes
Was scatter'd, and a light shone far and wide
From her immortal body, and her locks
Stream'd yellow o'er her shoulders: splendour fill’d
The solid mansion as with lightning gleam :
So pass'd she through the portal. She-her knees
Sinking beneath her, long was reft of voice;
Nor yet remember'd from the floor to raise
Her little one, the boy, the late-born babe :
His sisters, listening, caught his plaintive cry,
And from their well-spread couches sprang; while one,
Lifting the infant in her hands, laid close
Within her bosom, and another waked
Th’ extinguish'd fire; a third with soft-paced feet
Hurried to rouse the mother, where she lay
Faint on her perfumed couch. Then, gathering round,
They bathed the panting babe, most lovingly
Embracing him ; but he was little soothed;
Inferior nurses held him now in charge.
They through the live-long night appeased the goddess
In this their consternation : with the dawn
To potent Celeus they rehearsed the truth,
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And hest of corn-wreathed Ceres. He convoked
The skilful people, and enjoin'd them rear
A temple rich, and altar on the height.
Strait they obey'd; and rear'd, as he had said,
The temple, and it rose by heaven's decree.
So, when the work was done, and they had ceased
From toil, they, each, departed to his home.
But yellow-tressed Ceres, sitting there,
Apart from all celestials, unremoved
Remain'd, still pining for the deep-zoned maid;
And grievous, o'er the many-feeding earth,
And harsh to man she made the year; the soil
Sprang with no seed; wreathed Ceres hid it deep;
And many a crooked plough yoked steers in vain
Dragg'd through the fallows; the white barley fell
Laid flat with earth, and smitten in the ear;
And the whole race of speech articulate
Had surely perished by a famine sore,
And of the goodly tribute of their fruits
And victims disappointed those in heaven,
But Jove perceived, and mused within his mind.
Then first he Iris sent, the golden-wing’d,
320
To summon fair-hair’d Ceres' lovely presence.
He spoke, and she obey'd cloud-darkening Jove ;
And swift with gliding footsteps clear'd the space
Between ; approach’d Eleusis' fuming streets,
And found the blue-veil’d Ceres in her fame:
And, calling to her, greeted with wing’d words;
“Ceres 1 the god, whose knowledge faileth not,
Calls thee, and bids thee join th’ immortal tribe;
Come, therefore, lest the word of Jove, which I
Impart to thee, be frustrate.” So beseeching
She spake ; but unpersuaded was her mind.
Again the father of the blessed gods,
Existing ever, used the embassy
Of all; and one the other following each
Call'd her, and many goodliest gifts bestow'd
And honours proffer'd, whatsoe'er she would,
Among immortals; yet not one could sway
Her thought or purpose, so in soul incensed,
But sternly she their speeches bland refused.
Not once, she said, would she with due feet climb
Fragrant Olympus, nor the fruits of earth
Release, till with her eyes she should behold
The comely visage of her daughter lost.
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This when the wide-beholding thunderer heard,
He sent the herald with the golden rod
To Erebus, to move with melting words
The god of hell, if so he might lead back,
From gulf of murky darkness into light
Among the gods, the spotless Proserpine :
That her own mother might again behold her,
And lay her wrath aside. Nor disobey'd
Hermes, but with a rush descended swift
Under th’ abysses from his seat in heaven.
That king he found within his halls, reclined
Upon a couch, his modest spouse beside,
But sore-reluctant through her mother's longing.
Still, under her intolerable grief,
She held high counsel on concerns of gods.
The gallant Argus-slaying messenger
Drew nigh, and him accosted : “Dark-hair’d Pluto |
Lord of the ghosts departed Jove, my sire,
Commands me bring the noble Proserpine
Back from th’ abyss of Erebus to heaven;
That her own mother, looking on her eyes,
May pause from that dread anger, which she bears,
Resentful, 'gainst immortals: for she plans
Y
322
A violent act; to waste the feeble race
Of earth-sprung men; hiding the glebous seed
And minishing the tribute to the gods.
She holds her heinous anger, nor consorts
With deities, but sits apart, within
Her incense-smoking fane in steep Eleusis.”
He spoke; the monarch of the dead relax’d
His brow in smiles, obeying Jove's behest.
Instant he urg’d his prudent spouse; “Away!
My Proserpine ! go to thy mother back,
Who veils herself in sables, and take with thee
A gentle mind and temper, nor, in vain,
Grieve without measure. Not, amidst the gods,
Am I so base a husband, since allied
To Jove thy father. When thou hither comest,
Whatever lives and moves shall own thee queen,
And midst immortal honours greatest thine.
To thee the punishment of souls unjust
Shall, to all time, belong, and those who fail
To soothe thee with just rites and presents due.”
He said; the prudent Proserpine rejoiced,
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And, sudden, sprang with glee. He gave her then,
To chew, a honey-sweet pomegranate-seed,
Thus to himself attracting her; lest there
With her chaste, dark-veil'd mother she should stay
Through all her future days. Imperial Pluto
To golden chariot yoked th’ immortal steeds;
She climb'd the car; brave Hermes at her side,
Seizing the reins and scourge into his grasp,
Drove them from out the palace: fleet they flew
And swift achieved their journey's lengthening way;
Nor sea, nor river-wave, nor grassy vales,
Nor steepy heights restrain'd the rushing tramp
Of those immortal coursers; o'er them all
They pass'd, and flying cut the deepening gloom.
He drove them on, and stopp'd, where still remain’d
The crowned Ceres by her incensed fane.
She, when she saw, sprang forward, as the wild
Hill-nymph of Bacchus cleaves the shadowy wood.
On th’ other side leap'd Proserpine to earth,
And towards her own dear mother forward ran.
NOTES.
The hymn to Ceres, with other Grecian manuscripts, was brought
to the library at Moscow from the Greek monastery on Mount
Athos, in conformity to an order of the emperor Alexius Michael-
owitz and the patriarch Nico, by the monk Arsenius. It was
transmitted to Runkhenius at Leyden by Christian Frederic
Matthaei.
See the account of “Literature in Russia,” in Harris’s “Philo-
logical Enquiries.”
325
BACCH US, OR THE PIRATES.
FROM THE HOMERIC HYMNS.
OF Bacchus, son of glorious Semele,
How he appear'd beside the desert sea
Upon a beetling crag, I now will speak;
He seem’d a youth, the down upon his cheek;
The locks, that dropp'd in clusters round his head,
Gleam'd raven-black and nodded with his tread;
His nervous shoulders broad a purple mantle spread.
Anon there rush'd from the ships' banks of oars
Some Tuscan pirates, leaping on the shores
Through the black-surfaced deep, ill-doom’d, unwise;
They look’d upon him, and with winking eyes
And interchanging nods, upon him strait
Sprang, and on ship-board hurried him elate.
326
They said he was of noble kings the son,
And fain would bind the tightening shackles on ;
They held him not; the withes fell off, and lay,
Dropt from his arms and ankles, far away:
He sate and smiled; and in his eyeballs bright
There swam a glory of caerulean light.
The steersman recognised that beaming eye
And to his comrades call'd with warning cry;
“Ill-fated men what strength-excelling god
Seize ye to bind the ship, that on its road
Plied the lithe sail, sinks powerless with the load;
Apollo of the silver bow is he,
Or Jove himself, or Neptune of the sea.
He bears no semblance to a mortal's face;
In aspect like th’ Olympus-dwelling race.
Be quick—dismiss him on the solid land,
Nor dare to touch him with constraining hand;
Lest, if in aught incensed, he call the sweep
Of baffling blasts and eddies of the deep.”
The chief with thwart reply—“Wretch! catch the
wind
Hoist sail, set every rope; the work for men to mind.
327
AEgypt, I trust, or Cyprus, if I please,
This youth shall visit, or the polar seas,
Or climes beyond ; in time he shall unfold
His friends, his kinsmen, and his stores of gold.
Kind fortune in our way has thrown the prize.”—
He rears the mast and sail; the crew supplies
Each ready rope; a fresh and steady gale
Blows in the centre of the heaving sail :—
When miracles appear'd; as o'er the tide
The bounding vessel dipp'd her sable side,
Sweet-flavour'd wine in rills came purling red,
And clouds of odour, all ambrosian, shed;
They gazed with looks astonied, blank, and dead.
Upon the topmost yards a broad vine clung,
Trail'd here and there; the grapes in clusters hung.
Round the slim mast the ivy's blacker green
Curl’d flowering up, with berries gemm'd between ;
Wreathed foliage garlanded each thong-loop'd oar;--
They saw, and call’d—“Ho! pilot make for shore"
When in their eyes the god transform'd appear'd :
A lion on the topmost deck he rear'd
His shape, and roar'd ; in mid-ship, suddenly,
By every sign a bear, he ramp'd on high,
328
And shook his shaggy neck; again, the prow
A lion watch'd, and scowl'd and glared below.
They to the poop fled thronging, and, astounded,
The wiser steersman, in their fear surrounded:
Reen-springing at a bound, he grasp'd the chief;
They saw, they leap'd, impatient of relief;
From death within they, reckless, plunged without ;
The blessed sea received their hurried rout:
To dolphins changed they toss'd within the tide;
The god the steersman held, and gracious cried,
“Good pilotſ in my grateful soul confide
I am the shouting Bacchus, born from love
Of Cadmus' daughter, when embraced by Jove.”
Hail! boy of fair-haired Semeleſ may none
Build the sweet rhyme forgetful of her son l (19)
NOTE.
(19) The same story is treated by Ovid; the part, which Bacchus
plays, has with it more of stratagem and more of malice. The
dallying dissimulation and pathetic remonstrance of the one scarcely
equals in supernatural dignity the serene immobility and deriding
silence of the other; although we are equally conscious in each of
concealed power. The transformation of Bacchus into the alter-
nate shapes of a lion and a bear, and in different parts of the ship,
nearly at once, is a stroke well-conceived to exemplify the ubiquity
of a divinity: but there is more of quiet majesty in the appearance
of Ovid’s Bacchus, with the unreal beasts of the forest grouped
around his feet. The reader might like to compare the passage.
METAMoRPhoses III. x. 649.
The specious god, as if the fraud but now
Flash'd on his sense, gazed from the crooked prow
O'er the wide prospect of the seas, and shed
Apparent tears; “O mariners " he said,
330
“Not this the promised shore, the pray’d-for land—
What act of mine deserved it at your hand 2
Where is the boast, if ye, to manhood grown,
Deceive a boy 2 the many mocking one *
I felt mine eyes already fill, but they
Laugh’d at my tears, and dash’d with oars the spray.
By him, the god himself, I swear to thee
(Nor is there god more prompt to hear than he)
So true the wonders which my tongue shall tell,
As that my words all common faith excel.
In the mid-sea the ship was felt to stand,
. As though within the dock it press'd the sand.
Amazed they lash their oars and hoist the sail,
And strive to win their course by wave and gale.
Twined ivy-sprays the tangled oars enring,
And round the sails with drooping berries cling;
The grapes in clusters on his temples nod ;
Shrouded in vines he shakes the javelin of the god;
Tigers around and shadowy linxes lie,
And mottled panthers grim are crouching nigh.
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LOVE BE NIGHTED.
FROM ANACREON. ODE 3.
ONCE at midnight's hour—in air
Round Boötes wheel'd the Bear—
Potent slumber heavy hung
On the tribes of every tongue:
When without Love stands and knocks,
Shaking, sudden, bolts and locks;
“Who thus beats the door " I cry;
“Who thus makes my slumbers fly "–
“Open—for a child am I.
Fear me not—I’ve lost my way;
Dropping with the rain I stray
Through the dark of moonless night;”
Touch'd I heard, and sprang a light;
tº-
332
And the door threw wide, and lo!
One who quiver bare and bow,
Wing'd, and yet a child in look;
Seated in my chimney-nook,
I his fingers chafe, and drain
From his locks the trilling rain.
When his numbing cold had fled,
“Come—let's try,”—the urchin said—
“An it please you, this my bow ;
If the string be damp'd or no.”
To his ear he drew the cord,
Loosed and twang'd it at the word.
With a dart he smote me through ;
Whizzing from the string it flew ;
Like the gadfly in the sound,
Like the sting its vital wound.
He in laughter leap'd aside;
“Kind, my host ! much joy!” he cried;
“Trim my bow-string as before ;
But, I trow, your heart is sore.”
333
THE LAMENTATION OF DANAE.
FROM SIMONIDES.
ROUND the cunning-wrought ark roar'd the blast,
And the whirlpools upheaved of the deep
The vessel had well nigh o'ercast
With the rush of their perilous sweep :
Yet tearless her cheeks, as she wound
Her kind arm the infant around.
“Oh my child ! what an anguish is mine !
Yet balmy thou breathest in thy sleep;
The heart of the suckling is thine,
Though joyless thy house on the deep :
Brassy-wedged, with the stars for its light,
And, within, the black darkness of night.
334
'Thou heed'st not the wave's sudden dash
That above thee has vaulted but now ;
Nor bathes with the spray of its flash
The deep-cluster'd locks of thy brow:
Thy face, on that robe's purple pillow,
Is calm, while the winds chide the billow.
And ah! if the peril I feel
Would doubly seem peril to thee,
Turn, my babel an insensible ear
To my plaints and the sounds of the sea;
Oh sleep ! as I bid thee, my child !
Sleep, thou ocean thou measureless wild !
And frustrate and void may it prove
The dark and the subtle design;
I conjure thee, oh father l—oh Jove —
Stretch thy hand, that our cause may be thine !—
And, though bold be my words, let my son
Avenge me the wrong which is done!”—
THE ATYS OF CATULLUS.
337
A T Y. S.
IN bounding galley borne along came Atys o'er the
depths of sea;
With eager foot he touch'd the skirt of Phrygia's forest
scenery;
And nigh the gloomy wood-girt haunts, wherein the
goddess dwells, he drew;
Stung with frenzy’s sudden rages, reason to the winds
he threw ;
He snatch'd the griding flint, he dealt himself the
wound,
The burthen of his sex he dash’d upon the ground;
He felt, he saw, the man, the man forsake each fainting,
trickling vein,
And the fresh gush of ruby life bedrop the earth with
dappled stain ;
338
Then starting impetuous, with snowy-pale hands,
She caught the light timbrel and swung it in air;
Oh mother! dread mother! thy mysteries these,
The timbrel din and the trumpet blare;
With supple-soft finger, that flutter'd on high,
She beat on the drum with a deaf, hollow sound;
Then trill'd, all on tremble, her faltering song,
And the mates of her priesthood came flocking around.
“Up ! away!—up ! priestesses 1 away to Cybele's high
grove 1
Wandering herd of Dindymene, follow to the queen ye
love :
Ye that into climes barbaric, as unquiet exiles roam,
Followers of my sect and fellows, buffeted the salt sea-
foam;
Midst the truculent wild waters stood your mystagogue
beside,
And in wretchless hate of Venus wreak'd th’ unnerving
suicide;
Charm your mistress’ awful spirit with the goading
frenzy’s flights,
Dally not, 'tis now the moment, henceſ away my pro-
selytes!
339
Follow to her Phrygian forest; to her Phrygian house,
—’tis there
Where the cymbals lift their voices, where the timbrels
roar in air;
Where on crooked pipe the Phrygian doth the dinning
murmur rouse ;
Where the sexless prophets wheeling nod their ivy-
twisted brows:
Where with shriekings high they mingle in th' unutter-
able rite ;
Where the priests of Cybele are hovering in their fitful
flight;
Thither must we go careering in the dance that sweeps
us round,
Wafted in the rush of footsteps, quickening as they beat
the ground.”
Scarce to her mates had Atys, th’unreal woman, sung,
Through all the frantic rout a yell broke trembling shrill
from tongue to tongue ;
Timbrels flung their mutter'd thunder; hollow cymbals
clash'd again;
Up the mount of verdurous Ida rush'd with hurried foot
the train :
340
Furious, senseless, staggering, breathless, by the timbrel's
stunning stroke,
Upward, onward, Atys guides them through the glades
of darkling oak;
Like th' unbroken heifer plunging from the burthen of
the yoke.
The priestess-mystics track him, and hurry, hurry on ;
They touch the goddess' portal, and sense and force are
gone ;
And faint and foodless sinking in overwearied sleep,
They feel the torpid, languid slumber o'er their reeling
eyeballs creep;
And the raised mind's foaming frenzy ebbs in quiet calm
and deep.
But scarce with countenance like gold the sun his
beamy eyes had bent
On air's white space, the fretting sea, and th’ adamantine
continent,
With his fresh hoof-clanging coursers brushing the dark
mists of night,
Sleep from start-awakened Atys took precipitate his
flight;
34 l
On his own Parithea's bosom folding now his fluttering
wing,
Frenzied Atys waked from frenzy through that lulling
slumbering :
Traced the very deed with reason; now from dimming
passion free ;
Felt her loss and knew her station; rush’d returning to
the sea;
All her soul in boiling tumult, tears fast-dropping from
her eyes,
O'er the wide sea wistful-gazing, on the name of country
cries;
“Oh my country ! my creatress oh my country !
mother mine !
Whom, as slaves desert their master, I could, like a
wretch, resign ;
I have trodden Ida's forests—wherefore ? but that I
might be
In the midst of snows and dens of crouching beasts in
jeopardy.
Oh! where art thou ? oh my country ! where thy point
toward earth and skies
Fain I now could gloat upon thee from the depths
within mine eyes:
342
While my mind, a little moment, rests from its rabid
ecstacies;
Ha! am I from home transported to this tangled wild-
erness
Must I part from parents, country, friends, and all that
once could bless 2
From the training-school and circus, from the mall and
race-course sever ?—
Miserable ! miserable ! wail my soul and wail for ever!
Is there gloss of painted favour, which I could not call
my own
I, the boy, the downy stripling, I, the bud of youth full-
blown
I, the pink of naked combats, I, the grace of wrestler's
oil
Damsels' feet my door-way haunted; chafed my pave-
ment with their coil :
My perch was drest with garlands of every blooming
flower,
When, with the sun up-rising, I left my bed and bower—
Ha! shall I, in rout borne headlong, devotee, poor un-
sex'd slave,
I, a blasted man, the remnant of myself a priestess rave?
343
Must I lodge where Ida shroudeth bleak its greenwood
dells with snow :
Must I waste my life in loneness Phrygia's pillar'd rocks
below,
With the forest-haunting roebuck, with the woodland-
roaming boar
Now, in anguish, I repent me! now, ev’n now, my deed
deplore "
The flitting sound departed forth from lips of lan-
guid rosy hue,
To ear of gods it bore the tale, the tale incredible and
true :
And Cybele arose and loosed her lions' double-curbing
yoke,
The foe of flocks upon the left roused with her scourge's
stinging stroke:
“Go, she utter'd ; go, ferocious ! make him with my
furies burn;
Make him, instant, fury-smitten, to these groves, these
groves return
Dares he, ha! thus fond for freedom now my queenly
empery spurn ?
344
Hence, and gall thy loins with lashes; bear thy self-
inflicted pain;
O'er thy moved neck, arch'd in anger, fling thy flamy-
bristling mane;
Make the desert places echo back thy pealing roar
again l’’
She spake with threatening gesture; her hand the yoke
replaced ;
He roused his rapid instincts; he spurr'd his fiercest
haste ;
He bounded on with roaring; with ranging foot he tore
The intercepting thickets that crash'd his path before;
Approach'd to where the billow broke along the shore-
line's whitening verge,
And glanced the poor effeminate still hanging o'er the
marble surge ;
He sprang; the creature frenzying fled back to its sa-
vage woods, and there
An unmann'd slave existence dragg’d—a lingering hell
of live despair.
Goddess, listen mighty goddess Phrygia's god-
dess! mountain queen
345
Far from me and mine oh mistress! be the madness that
hath been
Oh let others own thy transport, feel the fury of thy
spleen
346
TO THE
PEN IN SU LA OF SIR M.I.O.
SIRMIO ! of isles the gem
And shores peninsular,
Where either Neptune's breast upbeareth them,
On molten lakes or ocean's depth afar;
With what a willing spirit, what full glee
Once more I visit thee:
Scarce to myself believing, that, the plain
Of drear Bithynia left behind,
In safety thus I look on thee again.
O what more blessed than to feel the weight
Of cares unloosed ? when the eased mind
Gently lays its burden down,
And spent with travel-toil, endured so late,
We, at the hearth that is our own,
347
Sink on the wish'd, familiar couch at last.
This, this alone
Repays the weariness and can atone
For all the perils past.
O lovely Sirmio ! welcome, and with me,
Thy lord, rejoice! O waves, that sparkle free,
Dimpling the waters of the Lydian lake,
Rejoice ye for my sake
That I, at length, am come :
Laugh all remember'd things that laugh of home !
348
CONSECRATION OF HIS PINNACE.
STRANGERS! the bark that meets your eye
Saith, never ship could fleeter fly;
No tree, that swam, e'er pass'd her by
With oar or straining sail;
She calls on Hadria’s threatening shore,
The Cyclad, Thracia's surges frone,
Propontis, Euxine's surly roar,
To contravene the tale.
In after-time a skiff, she stood
Tufted with nodding leaves—a wood
Full oft from ridged Cytorus' rood
Her sighing foliage spoke ;
Pontic Amastris, lend thine aid "
Cytorus, wave thy boxen shade
“Ye knew and know—the pinnace said;—
Your memories I invoke
349
Bear witness yel to what I speak;
I rooted on your mountain peak;
Thence launch'd me in your foamy creek,
And plunged the leafless oar;
Thence bore my lord through th' idle spray,
On either tack obliquely lay,
Or, with squared sail-yards, right away
Scudded the gale before.
No shore-god had my vows; I pass'd
From farthest seas, and now my mast
Rocks on this limpid lake at last,
My better day is gone;
Laid up and consecrate to thee
Who, with thy twin-star, rulest the sea,
I feel old age insensibly
Come stealing peaceful on.”
NOTES.
Frederic Werthes, author of a German translation of the Atys,
(Munster, 1774) has a disquisition on the subject, in which he
states that the rites of Cybele, whom Lucretius (b. ii. 598) describes
as the earth, in a car drawn by lions, were transported into Phrygia
by a colony of Phoenicians; hence Atys is said to have entered the
Phrygian grove, after having been “carried over the deeps.”
Macrobius (Saturn. 1. c. 21.) testifies that the Phrygians worship-
ped the sun by the name of Atys, whom the Lydians identified with
Adonis. The human character, with which Atys is invested by
Catullus, forms no objection to his mythological identity; as this
was consonant to poetic usage; and there seems no ground what-
ever for the assumption of Mr. Lamb, that “the Atys of Catullus
was a personage of his own creation, and not to be confounded
with the Atys of mythology.”
The transformation of sex has been criticised; but the poet con-
veys an allusion to the female vestments, in which the priests of
Cybele were attired.
THE
SIXTH SATIRE OF HORACE.
353
THE SIXTH SATIRE OF HORACE.
BOOK II.
THIS was among my wishes; a small lot
Of meadow closing in a garden-plot;
A living spring that near my door may glide
From its well-head; a clump of wood beside.
This sum of all imaginary bliss
The gods have given, and given me more than this.
Enough—I ask no more, or this alone
O Maia's son that these may be my own.
If ne'er ill gains increased what I possess,
Nor e'er bad thrift will shrink them, nor excess,
Nor fond I crave and pray, “O would that nook
Were mine, that stints my field with ugly crook;
O for the chance to find a pot of gold,
Like him, to whom the very field was sold
2 A
354
He till'd for hire, since Hercules assents
” if what I have contents;
To treasure-trove;
Then Hermes' let me this my prayer obtain;
Make fat the poet's herds, but not his brain;
And be, as thou hast ever been, the guard
Waking or sleeping, of the rural bard
When, hasting from the noisy streets of Rome,
I seek that palace in the hills, my home,
What better theme can I, at leisure, chuse
For my loose satire and my prose-like muse
No pestering visit worries me to death,
No leaden south-wind weighs my flagging breath ;
No sickly autumn blasts me with its pains,
When crabbed undertakers count their gains.
Father of morning's hour, or Janus, hear !
Whichever name may better win thine ear;
By whom heaven wills that men in civic strife
Commence the business and first cares of life,
My song begins with thee. At peep of day
Sudden thou hurriest me to Rome away,
Bail for a friend : “Up !—use your better speed
Or he may find some other friend in need.”
355
Whether the northern whirlwind sweep the ground,
Or snow contract the daylight's narrow’d round,
I must begone; my voice I loudly raise,
Much to my hurt, in strong explicit phrase,
And leave the court; then, jostled by the rout,
Elbow my passage through the crowd without ;
Shove those who loiter—“how now * one begins,
“Mad pate * “The matter, saucy sir?” and dins
My ears with peevish curses: “ in your pride,
Mecanas' guest, you push the world aside;”—
This tickles me, I will not risk a lie,
There's honey in this envious ribaldry.
When on th’ Esquilian mount, the gloomy place
Whilom of graves, I plant my hurried pace,
A hundred tales of other men's affairs
Buz round my head and pelt me on the stairs.
“My master Roscius hopes you'll not be late:
The court of common pleas will sit at eight
To-morrow morn.” “Remember Quintus, pray,
The clerks expect you at the board to-day
On some new business which concerns the state—
Entreat Mecaenas seal these papers”—“I
356
Will do my best:” “but if you will but try
You can :” and teases to satiety.
Seven years, or nearer eight, have seen their wane
Since first Mecanas rank'd me in his train :
Not for a higher purpose than to share
His chariot, when he chose to take the air;
Whispering such secrets, as “how goes the clock
Say, will the Thracian hit a harder knock
Than Syria's champion ?—this shrewd morning wind
Will nip the fools, who leave their cloaks behind.”
Such as, deposited in chinky ear
Might safely challenge all who list to hear.
Yet, from that time, each day and every hour
Has vulgar envy had me in its power.
“Our old acquaintance by Mecanas sate
At th’ amphitheatre; I pray, mark that
I’ faith they play’d together in the ring;
Fortune's spoil’d child:” 'tis to this tune they sing.
Some vapid rumour, from the forum blown,
Has through the crowded cross-ways instant flown ;
Whoever meets me questions: “Good sir! tell—
You—hand and glove with great-ones, know so well :
357
Aught of the Dacyans hear ye *—“not a word:”
“How you love jesting !”—“if I aught have heard
The gods confound me.” “Well—th’Augustan bands—
Farm they on Latian or Sicilian lands 2"
And, when I say I'm in the dark, nay, swear,
The protestation meets a general stare:
As though of all queer mortals ever known
For nice and close reserve I stood alone.
Amidst these petty miseries wastes my day;
But wishes, such as these, oft force their way;
“O country solitudes 1 how soon shall I
Behold you; and, once more at liberty,
With old books, slumber, idle hours, drink down
A sweet oblivion to the cares of town 2
O when shall old Pythagoras' kinsmen, beans,
Be served at meals with bacon—flavour’d greens?
Suppers and nights of gods ! when I and mine
Around my own fire-side in freedom dine;
And on the tasted viands at their ease
My tenants feed, brisk-prattling what they please.”
His hunger is the rule to every guest;
If strong of head, large goblets please him best,
358
Freed from the law that bids the beaker pass;
Or he grows mellow with a moderate glass.
We turn not our discourse on others’ seats,
Nor on the last new dancer's rumour'd feats;
But talk of things we ought to know, that come
More to our business and our bosom's home.
If men are happier from their wealth or worth;
If honour or self-interest should give birth
To our form'd friendships: what is understood,
Or what the nature and the sum, of good
My chatty neighbour Cervius will not fail
To take his cue, and club some old-wife's tale:
Say, that Arellius from some novice wins
Praise for his carking wealth, he thus begins:
“A country mouse, the story says not when,
Received a city mouse in his poor den,
And, as an old friend, entertain’d his guest;
Our host was thrifty; homely at the best;
Yet, in a proper season, not so strict
As hospitable fare to interdict.
So, to be brief, he grudged not, from his hoard
Of vetch and bearded oat, to spread the board :
359
Grape-kernels dried he carried in his chaps,
And served of bacon the half-eaten scraps:
Hoping, at least, to tempt with choice of fare
His guest’s nice tooth, that fribbled here and there.
The good-man of the house, on this year's straw
Squat, with coarse bran and darnel stuff’d his maw,
And left, untouch'd, the dainties for his friend;
Who thus, at last: ‘Pray, how, at the world's end,
Much esteem’d sir, can you, in patience, drag
Your days behind this ragged wood's old crag 2
Come—would you, at a word, prefer to see
Men and the town for this old forest leaf
Let me persuade you —take the road with me.
Who breathe on earth share souls of mortal breath,
Nor great nor small can 'scape the clutch of death :
Then, my good friend live happy, while you may,
And recollect how soon you pass away.”
“This logic shook the rustic: from his house
Lightly he leap'd abroad; each traveller mouse
Trudged on the broad high-way, at the night-fall
Hoping to creep beneath the city wall.
“”Twas midnight now, when each, within the door
Of a rich mansion, track'd by stealth the floor.
360 .
The draperies glow’d with scariet, that o'erspread
The ivory frame-work of each banquet-bed;
And dishes, from the feast of yesternight,
Topp'd with their fragments many a basket's height.
Our host the clown on purple cushion placed,
And, like a serving-man with tight-girt waist,
Bustled about ; served course on course; and sought
A butler's praise, by tasting what he brought.
The other loll'd, and hugg’d his lot, and, blest
In the good cheer, play’d frank the jolly guest.
“When, sudden, the loud clap of doors dislodged
Each from his couch : they, shaking, shivering, dodged
And scour'd the wide saloon; and quaked yet more
And more, half-dead with panic, as the roar
Of mastiffs echoed through the vaulted roof:
Then quoth the rustic, as he slänk aloof,
‘This life will scarcely suit me; so, good-bye :
I shall console me in my privacy
Of wood and cave : I feed on vetches there,
But my poor cell is safe from every snare.’”
ELE GIES OF PROPERTIUS.
363
EPISTLE OF
A R ET H U S A TO L Y COT A.S.
(20) To her Lycotas Arethusa, these—
If thou, so oft away, canst still be mine;
Tears caused the blots thine eye bewilder'd sees;
The faltering hand has marr'd the wavering line.
The twice-track'd east beholds thee: Bactria's plain,
And the steel'd Parth on breast-mail'd courser borne;
Now the cold Briton whirl’d on pictured wain,
Now the swarth Indian horsed on steeds of morn.
Is this the husband-faith ? the love-pledged hour
When, a coy maid, I yielded to thy claim
Th’ ill-omen'd torch, that led me to thy bower,
Caught from some smouldering pyre its murky flame.
364
The sprinkling vase was dipp'd in Stygian lake,
The wreath reversed, without a god the train;
I dress the temples vainly for thy sake,
And weave the mantle of thy fourth campaign.
Ah wretch ! who fell’d for stakes the harmless tree,
And with hoarse shell contrived the trumpet’s blast!
Worthy to twist the cord of Ocnus he,
While, near, the Ass for ever fed his fast.
Say, does the mail thy tender shoulders gall?
And chafes the spear thy war-unpractised grasp
But rather this—than that thy wife bewail
The livid pressure of some leman's clasp.
They say thy cheek has wann'd; yet welcome this
If the pale hue bespeak regret of me:
When Hesper brings my bitter night, I kiss
Each chance-left weapon—all that's left of thee.
Then tossing on my ruffled couch I sigh,
And chide the bird that heralds morning skies;
Or my camp-task in wintry midnights ply,
And cull the purple, as the shuttle flies:
365
Or learn where flows Araxes, soon to yield,
How wide the Parthian scours his fountless waste;
Con regions on the tablet's painted field,
And how the skilful god the world has traced :
What land is bound with frost, what riven with heat;
What breeze to Italy conveys the sail;
My soothing sister keeps her wakeful seat,
My nurse protests and blames the winter gale.
Envied Hippolita l—with breast half-bare
The soft barbarian helm’d her gentle head;
Ah! did thy camp admit our Roman fair,
Close would I follow where thy banner led.
Not Scythia's cliffs should bar my way with frost,
Where warps the floods to ice the father-blast;
All love has power; the bride's, deserted, most,
For Venus fans the flame to live and last.
What though my robe with Punic crimson glow,
The crystal's richest water gem my hands
All is dull silence here; one damsel slow
Unbars the doors, the whilst her spindle stands.
366
The lap-dog's voice most pleasing sounds to me,
Whose whining cry her master's absence chides;
Glaucis alone supplies the place of thee,
Usurps my bosom and my bed divides.
I deck the shrines with flowers, the cross-roads veil
With vervain; savin crackles on our hearth ;
Whether on neighbouring roofs the night-birds wail,
Or wine-dash'd tapers sparkle into mirth.
That day, on which those brighter omens shine,
Foretels the slaughterous hour to yearling ewes;
The sacrificing priests surround the shrine,
Gird the long robe and kindle for their dues.
Ah! let not fire-wrapt Bactra tempt thy fates,
Nor linen vest from perfumed chieftain rent;
When from writhen cord are shower'd the leaden weights,
And twangs the bow from wheeling courser bent.
But (so may Parthia's foster-sons be quell’d,
Thy headless spear pursue the triumph train)
Still let thy nuptial troth be spotless held;
On these sole terms I wish thee back again.
367
Thus thy doff’d armour will I hang above
The gate Capena and inscribe the scroll—
“This, for a husband safe, his wedded love
Vows, as the offering of a grateful soul.”
368
THE TALE OF TA R P E IA.
(21) TARPEIA’s grave inglorious shall be told,
The grove, the capitol surprised of old.
There rose a wood; a cave where ivy clung;
And many a rustling tree o'er purling rivulets hung;
Pan's branchy house, where from the sultry rocks
The breathed pipe softly urged the thirsting flocks.
With beechen rampire Tatius fenced the fount,
And trenched his trusty camp with heapy mount.
What then was Rome 2 when Sabines dared to rove,
Shaking with trumpet clang the rocks of Jove
When Sabine spears stood bristling in the space
Where Rome's proud edicts curb earth's vanquish’d race?
Hills were her ramparts: where we now behold
Th’ Hostilian court, which guarding walls infold,
At that Numician fountain's lonely brink
The war-horse of the foe would stoop to drink.
369
Tarpeia sought those hallowing waters now,
The earthern pitcher pressing on her brow.
And could one death atone the maid aspires
O Vesta! to deceive thy living fires.
She saw where Tatius scour'd the sandy plain,
His chased arms glanced and shook through the steed's
tawny mane ;
She saw the monarch mien, the regal dress,
And dropp'd the vase in stunn’d forgetfulness.
Oſt feign'd she omens in the guiltless moon,
And dipp'd her tresses in the stream too soon ;
Oft the mild nymphs with silvery lilies woo'd,
Lest Tatius' face be scarr'd with javelin rude;
And climbing, with the city's earliest smoke,
Through rolling mists of morn, that round her broke,
The Capitolian cliff, her arms betray'd
With bleeding briery marks the nightly-wandering maid.
On her own rock she sate, and wept the love
Whose deeper wounds were sins to listening Jove.
“O ye camp fires O central princely tent!
O Sabine weapons, beauteous in these eyes!
2 B
370
Would I were now with you! to bondage sent,
So I might look upon the face I prize!
Adieu ye mountains! Rome thou mount-propt pile !
Thou Westal blushing for thy love-sick maid
The steed shall bear me to the camp erewhile,
The steed whose mane my chieftain's fingers braid.
What wonder if her father's locks were shorn,
And dogs raged fierce round Scylla's snowy waist
If stoop'd the brother Minotaur his horn,
And back the gather'd clue the labyrinth traced P
Ah! what a crime for Sabian maids is mine !
The chosen handmaid of a virgin hearth ;
And thou, that wonderest at th’ extinguish’d shrine,
Forgive—my tears have drown'd the flaming earth!
Fame tells, to-morrow will the storm be made;
Ah shun the thorny mountain's oozy side;
Slippery and false the way; the feet, betray'd
By treacherous track, on silent waters slide.
Would heaven I knew th’ enchantress lay ! this tongue
Might, also, aid a lovely chief’s distress;
Thee the wrought robe becomes; not him, who hung
On a she-wolf, inhuman, motherless!
371
Make me thy guest, if not thy wife and queen;
Surrender'd Rome, no vulgar dower, is thine;
At least avenge the outrage that has been ;
At least repay the Sabine rape with mine.
'Tis I can break the long battalion's range;
My nuptial vest ye brides the pledge of peace:
The fierce-toned trump for marriage flute exchange;
This ring shall make the clash of weapons cease.
The fourth-watch clarion speaks the dawning light !
Ev’n the stars wink and glide beneath the sea;
I’ll try if dreams will bring thee to my sight;
Kind be the phantom that resembles thee '''
She spoke ; her arms relax’d in slumber, slide;
She knew not love's worst furies couch'd beside :
Guard of Troy-fire, beside her Vesta stood,
And blew the faulty flames and hurl’d her torch within
her blood.
She rushes forth, as runs some Amazon,
Bare-bosom’d, on the banks of tumbling Thermodon.
'Twas Pales' holy day; ancestral rite;
Rome's natal morn now tipp'd her walls with light;
372
"I'was the swains’ revel-feast within the gates,
Where rustic tables steam with village cates;
And midst the scatter'd strawy bonfires reel
Th’inebriate crowd, with soil'd and trampling heel.
Then Romulus relax’d the watch around;
The garrison restrain'd the trumpets' stated sound.
Tarpeia knows her time : the foe she leads,
Plights mutual faith and shares the plighted deeds.
The guard remiss had left the steepy way
To bar ascent: her sword prevents the watch-dog's bay:
All favours sleep; but Jupiter, alone,
For retribution wakes, and guards his own.
Her trust, her prostrate country she betray’d;
And “name the day that makes me thine !” she said;
Rome's foe the treason scorn’d ; and haughty cried,
“Climb thus my throne and bed, my queen and bride!”
They hurl’d their bucklers down and crush'd the maid;
Thus virgin was thy dowry fitliest paid :
The guide Tarpeia gave the mount a name;
O ill-starr'd vestall thy atoning fame !
NOTES.
(20) It is supposed that the lady, designated under the fictitious
name of Arethusa, was CElia Galla; and that by Lycotas was meant
Posthumus, to whom the twelfth elegy of the third book is addrest,
on his parting with his wife Galla, and who is thought to have served
with CElius Gallus, governor of Egypt, in his campaign against
Arabia Felix.
This elegy is conjectured to have been the model of Ovid’s Epis-
tle of Heroines.
Soepe mihi solitus recitare Propertius ignes.
(21) The real traditionary story of Tarpeia, as told by Livy l. 11.
and Florus l. i. 12. is well known.
Propertius appears to have rightly thought that avarice was not a
subject capable of poetic pathos. He has awakened an interest in
Tarpeia's character, but has extenuated the guilt of her treason.
Non ego te lasi prudens—ignosce fatenti,
Jussit amor.—
Num lacrymas victus dedit aut miseratus amantem est? º
SELECTIONS
FROM
QUINTUS CALAB ER.
377
FROM THE SUPPLE MENTAL ILIAD
OF
QUINTUS CALABER.
PODALIRIUS CONSOLED BY NESTOR FOR THE DEATH OF HIS
IBROTHER MACHAON. Book VII.
MARS, dealing death, was busy in the field;
Shouts rang, with clash of many a bull-hide shield,
By spear-thrust riven, or stone-cast from the sling;
So to the tough encounter did they cling.
Foodless in dust was Podalirius thrown
Beside his brother's tomb, with groan on groan :
By his own hand he turn’d his thoughts to die,
Griped his sword-hilt, or cast a wistful eye
In search of mortal drug; th' officious train
Their comfort press'd, yet would he not refrain;
378
And he, full sure, had dealt himself a wound
Where on his brother's corse was heap'd the mound,
But Nestor knew, nor grudged his kind relief;
He sought, he found him in his passion'd grief;
Flung on the grave, white ashes on his head,
He beat his breast and call’d upon the dead.
His menials all and friends were gather'd round
And join'd their groans with woe alike profound.
Nestor's soft words the mourning man address'd ;
“Spare, spare these struggles; be these pangs represt;
My son beseems not one accounted wise
Should grovel near the dead in womanish agonies.
Thou canst not raise him up to see the light;
Th’ invisible soul in air has flitted from thy sight;
Fire on his frame insatiable has fed;
Earth takes his bones; he lived and he is dead.
Bind up thy nerves to bear, as I have borne
The loss of him, whom slain in fight I mourn.
Not thy Machaon 'self more graced could be,
Nor ever son his father loved as he
And for my sake he fell; my life to save
He threw his own away, and he is in his grave.
I tasted bread, and look’d upon the sun;
I knew that all a common race must run ;
379
We earthly men are stepping towards our grave;
All their sharp fate and mortal boundary have.
To man's condition born, kiss thou the rod;
Bear bane or blessing; each is sent from God.”
Anguish’d he cried, when Nestor ceased to speak,
While tears o'erswelling bathed his glistening cheek;
“A load of grief is weighing on my heart;
I saw my father to the skies depart;
He, the wise brother, took me to his breast;
Rear'd as a son; his healing lore impress'd :
Shared bed and board, and all of his was mine;
How, then, may grief his memory resign f
Now he is dead, in vain the mornings shine.”
The sage again the mourning man address'd ;
“The same bereavement God hath sent on all the rest :
Earth covers all, and all their course must run;
Life's hoped extent is guaranteed to none:
Better and worse on knees of gods repose;
Mix’d in one heap of fate life's joys and woes;
Not gods can look beneath their veil of night;
Sudden they spring to unexpected light;
380
Fate only to the pile her hands applies,
And rains them earthward with averted eyes,
Thus, as a wind-blast, wafted to and fro:
And thus the vile has bliss, the good has woe.
Never secure, life marches on its way,
But stumbles in its path of twilight day;
A face of tears, a face of smiles it wears;
No man that breathes a perfect gladness shares;
Down to the close of being from its birth
There happen time and chance to sons of earth.
Should tears, then, drain the life that soon decays
Poor slave to sorrow I hope for better days.
Tradition speaks, to yon eternal heaven
Pure souls return; th’ impure to gulphy darkness driven:
Thy brother parted with a double claim ;
Born of a god and of benignant name ;
Conducted by his father's hest on high,
He sits with gods in heaven's blest family.”
He softly raised the mourner from the ground,
Although reluctant and in sorrows drown'd ;
Soothed, as he walk’d with oft-reverted eyes,
And drew him from the tomb, still heaving heaviest sighs.
381
PARTING OF NEOPTOLEMUS FROM HIS MOTHER
DEIDAMIA. Book VII.
THIS said, Achilles' valiant son replied—
“Then, if the Greeks invite me to their side,
Warn’d by heaven's oracles, no more delay;
Brush we to-morrow the broad ocean spray;
So may I to the wishing Greeks afford
Light; seek we now the hospitable board:
My promised wedlock—let some future day
And the kind gods dispose it as they may.”
He said and pass'd before ; and they, elate,
Trod on his steps and walk’d the hall of state.
Within they Deidamia found, who kept
Her widowhood aloof, and ceaseless wept
As snows, that to the whistling breezes run
From mountain crags, and feel th’ unconquer'd sun.
382
So for her glorious lord she pined away;
The princes hail'd her, thus to grief a prey;
Her son approach'd, and frankly told the fame
Of their high lineage and each single name;
But till the dawn deferr'd the cause for which they came;
Lest weeping sadness on the mourner steal,
And supplications check his hastening zeal.
They took repast, and all were soothed with sleep
Who lay in Scyros midst the sounding deep;
Where the still-beating billows roar around,
And dash’d with broken foam th’ Egaean shores rebound.
But slumber seal’d not Deidamia’s eyes;
Her sleepless fear Ulysses' name supplies
Coupled with craft; and god-like Diomed
Who from her widow’d arms Achilles led;
Rousing that dauntless heart for war to burn,
Till fate surprised and barr'd him from return.
Thence boundless grief on her and Peleus fell,
And thence new terrors in her breast rebel,
Lest to the chance of war her son should go,
And woe be added to her bleeding woe.
383
Morn climbs the spacious heaven; the heroes rise;
With tip-toe step each from his chamber flies,
But shuns not Deidamia's watchful eyes.
Round Neoptolemus' broad breast she clings;
The thrilling air with her lamentings rings.
As when the heifer unremitting wails
Her youngling, moaning deep o'er hills and echoing
dales,
So rang the inmost chambers with her grief;
That now, indignant, found in words relief.
“Whither is flown thy sense my son my joy!
That thou with strangers wend'st to tearful Troy
There many have made shipwreck of their life,
Though train'd to battle and inured to strife:
Thou art a youth ; not thine the fence of art,
That brunts the death-stroke and that shields the heart:
Then listen—rest at home ; rest safely here,
Lest the death-news from Troy affright mine ear.
My mind forebodes that from the battle plain
Alive thou never wilt return again.
Thy father fell himself; that mightier he,
God-born, superior to the rest and thee.
384
Their counsel, their deceit allured him on
To dismal war, who now seduce my son.
For thee I fear; I tremble at my heart;
Thou leavest me childless, if thy steps depart.
No worse despair to woman can befall;
Of husband, son, bereft—bereft of all;
Her void house shrouded in one funeral pall.
Then neighbouring ruffians rend her fields away,
Reckless of right and greedy of their prey.
Ah! what more wretched, what more weak than she,
Whose house is desolate as mine will be P”
She said and wept aloud: her son replied,
“Cheer thee, my mother cast thy fears aside.
Dismiss thy evil omen : can it be
That I shall fall, unless by fate’s decree ?
If such my fate, may those I serve proclaim
I perish worthy of Achilles' name !”
He said ; when Lycomedes reverend stood
With snowy hairs to check his fiery blood.
“Brave son of valiant sire his image thou;
Thy father's valour sits upon thy brow :
385
Yet war's most bitter end I dread for thee,
And dismal peril of the surging sea :
The mariner hangs on the brink of death;
Fear, ere thou tempt the fickle breeze's breath
From Troy's or other shores; then, when the sun
Meets Capricorn, involved in vapours dun,
And leaves the archer and his bow behind,
Then clouds and storms come thickening in the wind :
And when the stars are snatch'd in ocean's breast,
And sinks Orion darkling to his rest,
Dread in thy mind the equinoctial gale,
Nor, when the Pleiads set, unfurl the sail:
Then tempests scour the waters waste and wide,
And on the surface of the billows ride.
Fear too the goat, when from th’ horizon's verge
He plunges headlong in the skirting surge ;
And other stars, that set or rise around
The broad expanse, and light the blue profound.”
He spoke, and kiss'd his grandson; nor withheld
Longer his steps, to strifeful fields impell’d.
He, smiling blithe, was hastening to the beach ;
But in the house his mother's tear-dew’d speech
2 C
386
Detain’d him yet awhile, though hurrying on
With buoyant feet, that seem’d already gone.
As when a youth his starting steed restrains,
Presses his side and draws the bitted reins;
Neighing he champs the curb that has represt,
And throws the foam on his besilver'd breast;
He shifts his feet, that quiver'd on the bound;
His light hoofs trampling clang with hollow sound;
His mane's toss'd flakes athwart his shoulder flow ;
He flings his head aloft; his breathing nostrils glow ;
His rider glorying smiles; thus clinging round
Her Neoptolemus, the mother wound
Her fettering arms; his feet but pause to part,
And the track’d dust is smoking ere he start:
Though grieved, she gazed with joy upon her son ;
Who kiss'd her o'er and o'er, and so was gone :
He left her in his father's hall to mourn
Her bitter sorrows, helpless and forlorn.
As round some mansion's jutting frieze on high
The swallow flits, and mourns with piercing cry
Her dappled nestlings, whom a serpent foul
Caught, shrieking, and with sorrow wrapp'd her soul;
387
Sad cowers the mother o'er the vacant nest,
And, plaining, beats the cornice with her breast;
So for his sake did Deidamia shed
Fast tears; and, on her son's deserted bed
Fall’n at her length, shriek'd loud ; and o'er and o'er
Wet with her tears the pillars of the door
Through which he pass'd away; and fondly press'd
Each toy, that pleased his childhood, to her breast:
Or if through tears she spied a chance-left spear,
She kiss'd it oft; 'twas his, and it is dear.
He from his mother, thus lamenting sore,
Was far away, and heard her voice no more.
His limbs fast bore him on his shipward way,
And like a meteor flash’d his armour's ray;
Ulysses, Diomedes, graced his side,
And twenty followers, valiant men and tried ;
Them Deidamia from her house had sent
To serve her son and guard him where he went.
They of Achilles' son composed the train,
Thus through the city hastening to the main.
He, marching in the midst, exulting trod;
Glad Nereids look'd, and smiled the blue-hair'd god
388
To see Achilles' son, a dawning star,
Languish to cope with fields of tearful war.
Though beardless was his cheek, strength nerved the frame
And knit the joints; the spirit lent the flame.
He bounded from his country's shores, like Mars
In form and aspect, when he seeks the wars;
While the keen rage is kindling in his soul,
Bent are his brows, his eye-balls flashing roll;
With fierceness clad, his cheek has awful charms,
And gods shrink trembling as he stalks in arms:
Such was Achilles' son; the temples burn
With incense for the prince's safe return;
Heaven hears the city’s prayers; and on he treads
Elate, and towering o'er his followers’ heads.
By the deep-roaring ocean rolling dark
They found the rowers, in their sculptured bark,
Busied from side to side, and to the gale
Loosening the canvass of the running sail.
The hero leap'd aboard : they straight unmoor
The cable's noose, that binds them to the shore,
And heave the anchor's strength, th’ eternal stay
Of mighty ships, that roll within the bay.
389
The spouse of Amphitrite kindly lent
A passage through his calmy element;
For care was at his heart, since Greece, his joy,
Was prest by brave Eurypylus and Troy.
Meanwhile the chiefs beside Achilles' son
Beguiled his ear with deeds his sire had done;
Joy in his spirit rose and hope, that he
Should great and glorious as his father be.
But in her chamber, as they plough’d the tide.
The virtuous Deidamia wept and sigh’d
For her lost son ; with tears and many sighs
Her heart dissolves in sorrow’s ecstacies,
As wax or yielding lead above the gleams
Of living embers melts in trickling streams:
Nor e'er that anguish left her, as she stood
Still looking out on the sea's shoreless flood;
And still the son was in the mother's mind
When at her lonely meal she sad reclined;
The sails have vanish’d from her eye, which bear
That ship too far away, and seem as air;
She, all day long, sobb’d in her lone despair.
390
But fresh the breeze; and through the furrow'd sea
The ship upon her course sprang cheerily ;
Lightly she skimm'd the undulating tides;
The dark, blue billow dash’d her foamy sides.
391
THE STORMING OF TROY. Book XIII.
MEANTIME the Trojans feast in every street
With shrilling pipes and flutes; the dancers beat
The ground, and singers troll the song, and high
The goblet-din and roar of revelry.
Each, grasping in his hand the brimming bowl,
Slakes in full ease the fever of his soul.
Then sinks, o'erwhelm’d, th’ internal man; the sight
Is snatch'd away in whirls of dazzling light;
Maim’d from the tongue each word successive falls;
The hall spins circling with its garnish’d walls;
One motion seizes all ; in wheeling flight
The city turns before the darkling sight;
For quench'd in floods of wine the vision reels,
And thought itself the dim confusion feels;
When through the gaping jaws the draughts o'ersway
Th’ unbalanced mind and steal the brain away.
392
Some youth, with head o'erheavy, lisping frames
His witless speech, and valiant thus exclaims:
“Troth, but in vain the Greeks have spent their toil,
And drawn their marshall'd myriads to our soil;
Each, with his work undone, now flees from Troy,
Like a weak woman or a puling boy.”
So spake some Trojan, dazed with wine, nor knew
How near, ev'n to the doors, the slaughter drew.
For, soon as one by one had sunk to rest,
Sated with food and deep with wine opprest,
Sinon, at length, upheld the torch on high,
That flash'd its signal gleam against the sky.
Throbb’d every Grecian heart, lest Troy behold,
And the bright sign their hidden wile unfold.
But all now slept the sleep that was their last,
Drown'd in their cups and full with high repast.
The Greeks descried, and hasten’d to unmoor
From Tenedos, and dash'd the billows hoar.
Then Sinon with low voice approach'd the steed,
Low, that no Trojan might, awaken'd, heed;
But Grecian chiefs alone o'erhear; for they
Watch'd, to be bold in deeds, and slumber fled away.
393
They caught the words within, and bent their ear
To wise Ulysses, with a wholesome fear;
Silent and safe he warn'd them to descend;
They, at his summons, to th’ encounter bend,
And from the horse are hasting to the ground,
Eager to deal the blows of battle round,
But he restrains the thronging rush ; then wide,
Yet softly, opes the wooden courser's side,
His swift hands aided by Epèus’ spear,
And slow emerges, with a glance of fear,
And scans the city lest some sentinel be near.
As, roused by hunger, from the mountain rocks
The wolf steals prowling towards the folded flocks;
He shuns the guardian dogs and watchful men,
And with hush'd step encroaches on the pen;
So slid Ulysses from the steed ; the rest
With their successive feet the ladder press'd,
Framed by Epèus, that the chiefs might bend
Their upward steps and easy re-descend.
They, one by one, to bold adventure bound,
With gradual step descended to the ground.
394
As wasps, by woodman's foot disturb’d, arouse
Their legions, clustering on the darkening boughs;
So burst they on the town of fenced Troy,
The heart within them panting fierce with joy;
And ranged the streets and slew on every side;
The ships already breast the ocean tide;
For Thetis sent a favouring gale, and bore
The glad Greeks to the Hellespontine shore;
And there they furl the sails, the gallies moor.
Then, disembarking, in their dense array
To Troy's doom'd walls they shape their dauntless way.
As the throng'd sheep their forest pasture leave
Midst the flush'd lights of autumn's shadowy eve,
Blithe crowding towards the fold, so march'd the train
In trampling phalanx Troy-ward o'er the plain,
Prepared to aid their chiefs and pile the streets with slain.
As troops of wolves, sore-hunger'd, down the steeps
Scour through the woods, while, tired, the shepherd
sleeps;
Now these, now those they rend within the fold,—
Cover'd by night thus wide the carnage roll’d;
395
Corse rose on corse and slaughter crimson’d all,
Though the great host was yet without the wall.
But, when the mightier army enter'd Troy,
Fierce was the rush and keen the vengeful joy:
Breathing the strength of Mars, th’ embattled throng
Through streets with carnage glutted pour along :
On every side the conflagration rolls,
And dismal flames bring transport to their souls:
Then from the crashing roofs, that sink and burn,
Grim on the men of Troy their arms they turn ;
Mars ranged among them, and Enyo stood
Dispersing groans and blackening earth with blood.
Trojans, allies, in gore all prostrate lay,
And others on them gasp'd their lives away.
Some held their gushing entrails, taking flight
From house to house in miserable plight:
Others with amputated feet now trail'd
Their bodies midst the dead, and piteous wail'd ;
Heads and lopp'd hands were scatter'd in the dust,
And many a flying wretch with speary thrust
Was, through the back, transfix’d into the heart;
Or through the loins in front emerged the dart,
Where keenest Mars’s wound and bitterest is the smart.
396
The howl of dogs throughout the city rose,
The groans of youths beneath the murderous blows;
And from each house shriek’d women’s shrill despair—
As when an eagle, poised in buoyant air,
O'erhangs the scattering cranes, they rend the sky
With heartless screamings as he stoops from high ;
So here and there the Trojan women flew,
So thick, so mingled their lamentings grew.
Some started from their beds; some leap'd distraught
To earth; no head-gear's wretched mockery sought,
They in slight sark roam’d wild : some, mazed with
dread,
Caught up nor veil nor trailing robe, but fled
Forth in their terror; their quick hands essay’d
Alone to screen the charms their haste betray’d.
While some with torture pluck'd their rooted hair,
And smote their breasts and wail'd in their intense de-
spair.
But some had dared to mingle in the fray
And aid the spouse or son, who bleeding lay,
Their courage equal to the great essay.
The general cry of consternation scared
The children's sleep, whom sorrow yet had spared;
397
Babes by each other's sides were stretch'd in death,
And seem'd in dreams to yield their little breath:
The fates in horrid rapture downwards bent
To gloat upon the murder'd innocent.
The kill'd were laid on heaps, like swine that fall
To feast a king's guests in the palace hall;
The wine that in the concave goblets stood
Blush’d with new tinct and swam with mantling blood:
No Greek, but some poor victim's breast explored,
And ev’n the stripling flesh’d his maiden sword.
As the gaunt wolves or fleet hill-panthers run
Down to the vales beneath noon’s parching sun,
When home the shepherd has the milk convey'd,
And left his cluster'd flock in woodland shade ;
They glut their ravening maw ; the black blood drain,
And spread a sad feast for the mournful swain;
So did the Greeks range Priam's city through,
So in that desperate strife they rush'd and slew.
None of the Trojan people scaped a wound,
Maim'd their lithe limbs and black with gore around.
Nor bloodless to the Greeks the combat sped ;
Some tables, goblets hurried to the dead;
398
Some smit with smouldering firebrands sank to rest;
And prongs hot-hissing speared the quivering breast:
Some cleft with axes gasp'd, in life-blood drown'd,
And hilt-dissever'd fingers strew'd the ground,
The hand yet writhing from the fateful wound ;
And oft, from arm of happier vigour thrown,
The brains came rushing to the shattering stone.
They, as wild beasts surprised within the fold,
Raged with their wounds, and on each other roll’d
In darkness of that fated night; the rest
To Priam's palace, cheer'd and cheering, press'd.
There many a Greek by spears of Trojans bled;
They, as they might, with pikes and falchions sped,
Caught up by hasty hand ; their foes recline
As though they stagger'd with the weight of wine.
Meanwhile a light, by Grecian torches shed,
Its quivering blaze o'er all the city spread,
From many a lifted hand; and thus they know
Th’ illumined face of either friend or foe.
Achilles' son, with battle-searching lance,
Cut short Polites in his bold advance;
399
From Pammon, Tisiphon, he reft the life,
And smote Agenor in the closing strife :
Round Priam's sons death's shadows hovering flew ;
He ranged the courts and whom he cross'd he slew.
His veins high-mounting with Achilles' blood
He sought the king, and found him where he stood
Beside the altar of Thermaean Jove :
He saw, he knew, nor deign'd his feet remove
From that same spot; for there he wish'd to fall
And join his sons’ untimely funeral.
Prepared to die, he cried—“Hail thou, the son
Of stern Achilles be thy calling done !
For I am weary of the garish sun.
Slay ! nor compassionate a wretch like me,
But lay me with my sons; as they are, let me be.
War's sharp disasters, agony, and woe
No more shall touch me when thou lay'st me low.
Ah had thy father slain me, ere the light
Of Troy's consuming flame should blast my sight !
Then, when I bare the ransom of the slain,
Whose corse, my Hector's corse, he dragg’d upon the
plain.
400
But thus the destinies have spun my thread;
Then lay me, lay me with the envied dead.
Come—with my murder sate thy rage, and give
Relief to one, whose torment is to live l’”
“Old man ſ"—th’ impetuous chief replied—“the
boon
Thou ask'st, assure thee, shall be granted soon ;
Amongst the living shall I leave my foe
Not while life's blessing is the best below.”
He spoke, and from the old man sever'd sheer
The hoary head; as falls a wheaten ear
In the wish’d summer, by the sickle shorn,
It fell, with mighty groan asunder torn
Far from the limbs by which the man is borne.
Bare lay the trunk in gore, midst heaps of slain,
Of him whose pomp, whose birth, whose sons, were vain:
So brief the fleeting glory of mankind,
Disgrace, a spectre, starting from behind;
So fate removed him from this world of woes,
And hush'd his griefs in darkness and repose.
401
The warrior Greeks, in that tremendous hour,
From the high summit of a toppling tower
Hurl’d down the babe Astyanax, in death
Quenching the vital warmth of infant breath.
Yea, with hard grasp they tore him stern away,
Ev’n from betwixt the breasts whereon he lay;
Incensed with Hector, who, when living, dealt
Destruction round, against his child they felt
A foster'd hate, and from the bulwark threw,
Though innocent of war his guiltless breath he drew.
As wolves insidious and with hunger stung
Rend from her swelling teat a heifer's young,
And snatch along the howling rocks; below
The mother moans, sad-ranging to and fro;
When to herself more pressing perils rise,
And troops of lions seize her as she flies;
So, while she, raving, wept the boy she lost,
The foes AEötion's beauteous daughter cross'd,
And forced her with the female captives on,
Filling the air with shrieks for spouse and sire and son.
Sprung as she was from kings, she wish'd to die,
Rather than serve the base in forced captivity:
2 D
402
Heart-broken, thus, exclaiming sad, she cried,
“Come! cast me down where my own infant died
That fatal tower—the rock—the burning flame—
To me, weigh’d down with misery, are the same.
What though Achilles did my sire destroy
Nay, and my husband,-him, my glory and my joy—
A little son was left me still, who play’d
Within my house, on whom my hopes were stay’d :
Proud was I of my son —but how by fate betray’d
Thus sinking under grief, in pity slay !
Dispatch, nor drag me to your homes away;
Let me not stand beneath the spear, enroll’d
With captive maidens, to the bidder sold.
Since some ill genius has my guardians reft,
I would not midst the sons of men be left
Bereaved of every tender, earthly joy,
And wretched in the wretchedness of Troy "
She spoke, and long’d to hide beneath the ground;
Abased, they loathe to live, who lived renown'd ;
And shrink to bear the load of grinning scorn;
Yet they their captive dragg’d, reluctant and forlorn.
403
The men within the various mansions died,
And piteous outcries rent the well-in wide.
But from Antenor's house the Greeks refrain'd;
Their minds his hospitality retain'd,
When god-like Menelaus sought his board,
And, with Ulysses, shared his friendly hoard:
His life, his stores, the thankful Grecians gave,
Thus honouring Themis, and the kind and brave.
And now AEneas, who for Troy had toil'd
With heart and spear, and many a life despoil'd;
When now he saw beneath the foeman's hand
Her structures smoking from the blazing brand,
The people perish'd, all their wealth a prey,
And matrons ravish'd with their babes away,
The hope forsook him, that before his eyes
His country’s bulwarks should once more arise ;
And in his mind he cast to shun the weight,
Hung o'er his head, of ruin and of fate.
As in deep ocean the skill'd helmsman guides
The tossing ship, when 'gainst its reeling sides
404
The waves rush on and roars the driving gale,
'Till hand and heart, now tired with tempest, fail;
He quits the helm, deserts the foaming deck,
Trims the light skiff, nor heeds the sinking wreck;
So did Æneas leave the town on fire,
Bearing along his son and age-bow’d sire ;
One his strong grasp on his broad shoulders rear'd,
One by the hand he led, who, listening, fear'd
And look'd behind, as rose the clang of war,
And sounds of dread came mingling from afar.
The tender boy with tip-toe footsteps hung,
That skimm'd the ground, and to his father clung;
Tears on his delicate cheek involuntary sprung.
Swift-footed sped AEneas, and perforce
Trod darkling, as he pass'd, on many a corse;
Venus before him marshall'd with her ray
Son—grandson—husband—on their destined way,
And snatch'd them from the perils of the fray.
The fires receded where his footsteps came,
And roll'd asunder the divided flame;
And every rueful weapon, aim'd to wound,
Falter'd in air, and clank'd, unbloody, on the ground.
NOTES
TO SELECTIONS FROM QUINTUS CALABER.
The MS. of this poem was discovered by Cardinal Bessarion,
in the church of St. Nicholas, at Otranto, in Calabria. It was
superscribed Quintus Calaber. A fashion has been set up of calling
the author “Cointus Smyrnaeus:” because Rhodoman inferred that
he must have been a native of Smyrna, from a passage wherein he
indicates that he “fed goodly sheep in the fields of Smyrna.”
Plutarch, writing in Greek, and having to speak of Quintus Fla-
minius, of course calls him Kouvrov påapuvvov; but he does not
therefore cease to be Quintus. The annotator on Quintus Calaber,
Dausqueius, asks Rhodoman, “whether no man, born elsewhere,
could feed sheep, if it pleased heaven, at Smyrna P’ and “whether
the Germans, who made a campaign in Holland, were therefore
converted into Dutchmen º’’
Quintus the Calabrian, so let us call him, wrote, probably, some
time in the fourth century. Wakefield, who speaks of the puerility
of his poem, though he admits its elegance, speaks like a pedant.
If the circumstantiality of some of his details be meant, the same
censure may affect Homer. His speeches are spirited, interesting,
406
and dramatic, with much of the sententious pathos of Virgil. If
he had copied the latter in the storm of Troy, it might be thought
that he would not have omitted Creusa. His manner is something
between Homeric and Virgilian, and is decidedly his own.
EXTRA CT
FROM THE
DION Y SIA CS OF N O N N US.
409
EXT R A CT FR O M N O N N US.
AMPELUS, THE YOUNG SATYR.
HIS PASTIMES.
(22) OFT he beheld, as Bacchus turn'd, the skin
that swept behind,
Waving its starry-circled folds, whose colours kiss'd the
wind;
And then the foreign speckled hide around his limbs he
threw,
And on his light foot gaudily the purple buskin drew :
And thus, with mimic glory clad in this his streak'd
cymar,
He saw the panther-chasing god winding his mountain
car,
And show'd him sport with cave-fond beasts, whose
green eyes glitter'd from afar.
410
For now he climb'd the grisly neck of some cliff-haunt-
ing bear,
And spurr'd him on, or curb’d him strong, with his own
shaggy hair;
And lash'd the bristling lion now, uprousing from his lair:
And now the chafing tiger's back immoveable bestrode,
And press'd the velvet mottled flanks triumphing as he
• rode.
Then, looking on, with threatenings mild would Bacchus
interpose,
And warn'd with friendly, pitying voice, prophetical of
WO6S.
“Whither away, dear boy? and why affect the forest wide?
Remain with me, where’er I hunt, a hunter at my side;
And feast with me, when to the board thou seest thy
god draw nigh,
When, midst my satyrs banqueting, I lift the revels high.
The panther moves me not; I scorn the shagg'd bear's
sayageness;
Nor fear for thee th’ impetuous fangs of mountain lioness;
Fear thou the wild and horned bull !”—he said, in melt-
ing ruth,
Brooding upon the destiny of that too venturous youth.
4l 1
The boy too lent his ear, but seem’d as listening to the
wind;
And careless wanton thoughts play’d light in his capri-
cious mind.
When, suddenly, before the god, with love fraternal
warm’d,
An awful sign of shorten’d days its moving presage
form'd.
For, from a rock, all sheathed in scales, one horn'd of
serpent race
Uprose, and bore a youngling fawn to a near altar's base:
There gored him with its ghastly horns and left him
stretch'd along ;
The hill-fed hind’s stray spirit fled, as with shrill note
of song,
Herald of blood-shedding to come; the stony altar's
hue,
Like wine out-pour'd in sacrifice, blush’d red with san-
guine dew :
And Bacchus view’d the murderous snake, and in the
ravish’d hind
Beheld that reckless youth, and moved, with fluctuating
mind,
412
Groans from him burst as nigh to death he saw the fated
youth,
Yet laughter, at the thought of wine, would mingle with
his ruth :
And still his feet the lovely boy in all his haunts would
trace,
Across the mountain, by the shore, and through the
woodland chase.
To look upon him was his joy; and, when beheld no more,
His eyes with drops of tenderness were ever running o'er:
And oft with Bacchus at the board, reclining side by side,
The boy upon the pipe his strain, uncouth and broken, tried;
And, though he marr'd the notes, the god, as if to piping
sweet,
Would strike his hands and smite the floor with airy-
bounding feet;
And place his palm upon the lips that were the source
of joy,
And fondling chain the stammering tones of that un-
skilful boy;
And swear that never Pan had breathed a carol so re-
nown'd,
Nor e'er Apollo warbled forth such luxury of sound.
413
HIS DEATH.
But Ate, she who beareth death, look'd on the daring
boy,
And, like a youth of kindred age, with mien that breathed
of joy,
Approach'd him in the mountain chase, from Bacchus
far away,
And thus enticed with words of fraud, that flatter'd to
betray :
“Undaunted boy! we hear in vain this Bacchus call’d
thy friend;
To grace of his companionship thou dost in vain pretend:
Not thou the panthers curb'st that whirl the chariot of
thy god,
But Maron holds the jewell'd reins, and shakes the ruling
rod.
What gifts are thine from him who wields the spear with
ivy bound
The Fauns and Satyrs have their pipes and timbrels
deep of sound;
The very priestesses on manes of mountain lions ride;
What favours canst thou boast from him, whose friend-
ship is thy pride 2
414
Oft, seated on Apollo’s car, Atymnius soar'd on high,
And cut the air, a shadowy speck, ascending up the
sky :
And thou hast heard how Abaris a flying shaft bestrode,
And, sent by Phoebus, through the heavens on buoyant
ether rode :
And Ganymede could rein and turn an eagle through
the sky,
Which hid the shape of him, who nursed thy Bacchus
in his thigh ;
But when did Bacchus gripe thy flank, or bear thee up
with wings on high
The fortune of the Phrygian boy was higher far than
thine,
A cup-bearer in Jove's own house he pours the ruby
wine ;
But now, dear youth, who longest still the harness'd
team to guide,
Beware the steed's unstable course nor yet his back be-
stride ;
With troubled motion of his hoofs, with whirlwinds
round his feet,
The steed is like a storm and hurls the rider from his seat.
4l 5
Thus did the frenzy-smitten mares the prostrate Glaucus
trampling tear,
And thus the horse of winged hoofs cast down Bellero-
phon from air :
But herds are mine, where shepherds pipe in leafy, green
retreat ;
Thou shalt bestride a lovely bull, with gallant, lofty
Seat :
Thy king, be sure, will praise thee more, thy king of
horned brow,
When on the god-resembling bull he sees thee mounted
In OW.
Safe such a courser; fear him not; which ev’n a virgin
rides;
Grasping the horn instead of rein, she prances through
the tides.”
Persuasion gilds the speech ; in air the spectral stripling
glides.
And, sudden, from a neighbouring cliff a bull loose-
roaming burst,
With open mouth and lolling tongue he stoop'd and
slaked his thirst :
4 16
Then stood, as rational, before the youth, who nearer drew,
Nor toss'd his horn, but placid gazed, as he his herds-
man knew.
The boy adventurous climb'd, and sate upon the curly
head,
Stroking with fearless touch the horns that in a crescent
spread.
The forest-pastured bull inflamed his ardour to command,
And rein the mountain-ranging beast, unyoked by mor-
tal hand.
He pluck'd the stems of bulrushes, deep-waving in the
wind,
And, woven with twigs and lighter shoots, a mimic
scourge entwined :
He gather'd ivy’s flexile sprays, and wreathed them for
a rein;
And roses cull'd and dewy leaves to deck and to re-
strain ;
And o'er the forehead daffodils and twisted lilies hung,
And round the neck anemones of purple blossom strung.
With hollow'd hands he scoop'd the slime, where nigh
the river roll’d,
And smear'd the horns, that yellow’d shone with glis-
tering grains of gold;
417
Then cast a furry skin athwart the bull's broad loins,
and rose
Into his seat, and on the hide let fall the lightsome
blows
From his mock scourge; as though, in sooth, he back'd
a maned steed ;
And lash'd his murderer on with rash and inconsiderate
speed :
Then, lifting to the bull-faced moon a look of daring
glee—
“Horn'd moon " he cried, “thy team of bulls and thou
must yield to me !
I, too, can curb a bull, and horns surmount my satyr's
brow :”
Thus to the silver-orbing moon he spoke, high-glorying
InOW .
But the moon’s eye, with jealous light, through fields of
boundless air
Saw Ampelus on that sad bull transported soft and fair:
She sent a gadfly forth, that bears the herd-provoking
sting,
The goading insect, round the bull still flitting on the
wing,
2 E
4.18
Drove him with restless pace along, ev’n like a vaulting
steed,
O'er mountainous ridges; and the youth, deserted at his
need,
Beheld him thus o'er peaked hills bound headlong far
and wide,
And toil-aghast with plaintive voice thus supplicantly
cried ;-
“Stop, O my bull! to-day, and thou shalt on the morrow
run ;
Slay me not here on lonesome rocks, lest, when the deed
is done,
Bacchus should hear : nor, yet, resent that I have gilt
thy horn;
Nor let the friendship of the god now move thy envious
SCOTI).
If thou wilt slay and heedest not the love that Bacchus
bears,
Nor pitiest him who holds thy rein, who weeps and who
despairs;
If, nor his flower of opening years nor Bacchus' friend-
ship moves,
Convey me where the satyrs haunt and crush me in their
groves:
419
That they, at least, may mourn my dust; my adjuration
hear,
O friendly bull! and he who warn'd may drop a pitying
tear.
If thou must quell thy rider thus, who bears the satyr's
sign,
The rounding horns upon the brow and aspect like to
thine;
With vocal organs tell my death, ungrateful as thou art,
To Ceres; she in Bacchus' grief, be sure, will bear a
part.”
So said the rose-cheek’d boy, as now he hover'd o'er
his grave;
O'er trackless ridges of the hills the bull high-bounding
drave,
And from his back shook down the boy; the jointed
neck was broke,
With crushing sound; roll'd o'er and o'er beneath the
pointed stroke
Of goring horns, he lay, and all his body blush’d with
gore :
A satyr saw him stretch'd in dust; the heavy tidings bore;
420
And Bacchus hasten’d like the winds; ev'n Hercules
was slow,
Who ran when nymphs drew Hylas down in envious
waves below ;
And the fair ravisher of streams refused to let her bride-
groom go.
So Bacchus printed with his feet the soil that smoked
beneath,
And look’d upon the youth, who seem’d, in pulseless
death, to breathe :
And in his mantle wrapp'd the dead, and velvet deer-
skins threw
O'er the cold limbs; and on the feet, though lifeless,
buskins drew ;
And cropp'd the brief anemone to wreathe his hair with
fading hue ;
Placed in his hand the ivied spear; the purple robe
o'erspread,
And tore a tress from unclipp'd locks to grace the mar-
tyr'd dead;
And from his mother Rhea's hand he took th’ ambrosial
shower
To bathe his wounds, anon to yield the fragrance of
their flower,
421
And, springing into vine-shoots, breathe their own am-
brosial power.
No longer paleness overspread his rosy body's hue,
As graceful at his length he lay, and breezes fitful blew
Lifting the hair, and sighing soft the wavy ringlets
through.
Lovely he lay upon the soil, though all with dust de-
filed,
And beauty had not left the dead, for still, though dead,
he smiled;
And honied utterance seem'd to hang on the mute lips
of that fair child:
And Bacchus cried, with plaintive voice, whilst looking
on the dead,
And his calm brow’s serenity with lowering wrath was
overspread;
“Dear boy thy lifeless lips retain Persuasion's rosy
breath,
She blooms upon thy glistening cheek, and those fair eyes
yet laugh in death.
The palms of those so gentle hands are delicate as snows,
And through thy lifted lovesome locks the breeze shrill-
sighing blows:
422
Death's chilling blast has touch'd thy limbs, but has not
quench'd the rose.
O dearest! wherefore would'st thou rule th' ungovernable
steer
Why didst thou never breathe thy wish into this friendly
ear,
And say that on storm-footed steeds thou would'st ca-
reer afar
Then had I brought from Ida's tops the courser and the
Call".
Hadst thou but said, ‘I need the car,’ the chariot should
have run,
Thy seat secure, and solid wheels in ringing circles spun.
Then Rhea's reins had fill'd thy hold, though grasp'd
by none but me;
And thou hadst lash'd the dragons yoked, tame—sliding
on with thee.
Alas! no more with satyr guests thou sing'st the lyral
Song,
No more with cymbal-clashing nymphs thou lead'st the
dancing throng;
No more with Bacchus in the hunt thou ridest, a youth-
ful hunter strong.
423
O gravel O grave unmerciful that wilt not for the dead
Accept the price of treasures dug from earth's rich-veined
bed )
All would I give to see again my Ampelus alive:
Ah! unpersuadable and stern with one, that cannot
hear, I strive.
Would'st thou but listen I would strip the river-trees
that grow,
Dropping their amberjewels down, upon the banks of Po:
I’d cull Ind's ruby stone, that glows with red transparent
ray,
And all the gold of Alyba to bring him back to day !
Yes—for my boy, my lifeless boy, I’d give the grains of
gold
In deep Pactolus' eddy tides immeasurable roll'd "
Then, looking on him, as he lay upon the dust be-
low,
Exclaiming pitiful, his voice broke forth again in cries
of woe:
“Ah! if thou lovest me, Jupiter and know'st that love
was mine,
Let Ampelus but speak; its prey the grave, for one short
hour, resign ;
424
That one, but one last speech may breathe its music on
mine ear.”
“Why mourn'st thou, O my Bacchus' him who yet re-
vives not at thy tearf
Though ears are mine, they yet are deaf to thy bewailing
cry;
Though eyes are mine, I see thee not in this thy heart-
broke agony :
Give o'er thy grief; in vain beside her banks the Naiad
weeps;
Narcissus’ ear is dull and cold; in deathly waters calm
he sleeps.”
NOTES.
(22) Nonnus was a Greek writer of the fifth century, of whom
nothing is known, than that he undertook an embassy to Ethiopia
from Panopolis in AEgypt. The Dionysiacs were first printed in
1569, from a MS. in the library of John Sambach, at Antwerp :
and a “Paraphrase, in Greek hexameters, of St. John’s gospel,”
made its appearance from the press of Aldus, at Venice, so early
as 1501. The latter, which the critics seem to have taken into
their protection, is a glaring instance of false taste: the former,
which they undervalue as not sufficiently epic, displays extraordi-
nary fancy: the occasional sparkling conceit and luxuriant ampli-
fication being not unsuitable to the romance of mythology.
An analysis of the Dionysiacs, by which they are resolved into a
series of astronomical phenomena, may be found in Dupuis :
“Origine de tous les Cultes:” tom. iii. pp. 82—296. In this, it
may be admitted, the author has been more fortunate than in his
application of the same test to the Old Testament and gospel his-
tories: unless we are to suppose that Tacitus, in the celebrated
passage, Annal. 15–44: “Auctor nominis ejus Christus, qui,
Tiberio imperitante, per procuratorem Pontium Pilatum supplicio
affectus erat,” meant only to describe an eclipse of the sun.
TRAN SLATIONS
FROM
MOD E R N FR EN CH POETS.
429
CHARLES DE CHENEDOLLE.
FROM THE “ETUDES POETIQUES.”
REGIRIETS.
WHERE are my days of youth those fairy days
Breathing of life and “strangers yet to pain:”
When inspiration kindled to a blaze
The rapture of the heart and brain
Then nature was my kingdom, and I stood
Rich in the wealth of all beneath the pole ;
An antique rock, a torrent, or a wood,
Awaked the transport of my soul.
When the young spring her rosy arms outspread,
And ice-flakes melted from the green-tipp'd spray,
How rich the change what magic hues were shed
On tribes of flowers, that laugh’d in day !
430
Thou, too, black winter hadst a charm for me;
Thou held'st high festival: thy storms arose,
Delightful in their horrid revelry
Of hail-blasts, hurricanes, and snows.
How have I loved to see the radiance run
O'er the calm ocean from an azure sky;
Or on the liquid world the evening sun
Gaze down with burning eye
Yet dearer were thy shores, when, blackening round,
Thy waves, O sea roll'd gathering from afar;
And all the waste in pompous horror frown'd,
As storm-lash'd surges strove in war.
Jura ! thou throne of tempests many a time
My love hath sought thee in the musing hour;
Oft was I wont thy topmost ridge to climb,
Thy fir-tree depths my shadowing bower.
How, when I saw thy lofty scenes unfold,
My soul sprang forth, transported at the sight;
Enthusiasm there shook her wings of gold,
And bore me up from height to height.
431
My bounding step o'ervaulted summits high,
Where resting clouds had check'd their soaring pride;
And my foot seem’d in upward speed to vie
With eagles hovering at my side.
O ! then with what enamour'd touch I drew
Thy pencil'd outlines, desolate and grand 1
Vast ice-rifts' ancient crags your wonders grew
Beneath my re-creating hand.
All was enchantment then ; but they depart,
Those days so beautiful, when the bright flame
From unveil'd genius shot within my heart
The noble pang of fame.
432
T H E Y O U N G M AT R O N
AMONG THE RUINS OF ROME.
THROUGH Rome's green plains with silent tread
I wander'd; and, on every side,
O'er all the glorious soil I read
The nothingness of human pride.
Where rear'd the capitol its brow
Entranced I gazed on desert glades;
And saw the tangled herbage grow
And brambles crawl o'er crush'd arcades.
Beneath a portal half-disclosed,
By its own ruins earthward prest,
A young Italian wife reposed,
Mild, blooming, with her babe at breast.
433
O'er that drear scene she breathed a grace,
And near her I, enquiring, drew,
And ask'd her of that lonely place
The old traditions that she knew.
“Stranger" she softly said, “I grieve
Thy question must unanswer'd be ;
These ruins—I should but deceive
Did I rehearse their history.
“Some defter tongue, some wiser head
May know and can instruct thee right;
I thought not whither I was led,
And scarce the pile had caught my sight.”
Thus, wrapt in tenderness alone,
Joy's innocence becalm'd her brow;
She loved l—no other knowledge known,
She lived not in the past, but now.
434
O DE TO T H E S E A.
IMITATED FROM BYRON.
At length I look on thee again,
Abyss of azure thou vast main,
Long by my verse implored in vain,
Alone inspired by thee;
The magic of thy sounds alone
Can raise the transports I have known,
My harp is mute, unless its tone
Be waked beside the sea.
The heights of Blanc have fired mine eyes,
Those three bare mounts, that touch the skies;
I loved the terror of their brow,
I loved their diadem of snow ;
But O thou wild and awful sea
More dear to me
Thy threatening, bleak immensity.
435
Dread ocean burst upon me with thy shores;
Fling wide thy waters, where the storms bear sway;
Thy bosom opens to a thousand prores,
And fleets, with idle daring, breast thy spray :
Ripple with arrow track thy closing plain,
And graze the surface of thy deep domain.
Man dares not tread thy liquid way,
Thou spurn'st that despot of a day,
Tost like a snow-flake or the spray
From storm-gulfs to the skies;
He breathes and reigns on solid land,
And ruins mark his tyrant hand;
Thou bid'st him in that circle stand ;
Thy reign his rage defies :
Or, should he force his passage there,
Thou risest, mocking his despair;
The shipwreck humbles all his pride;
He sinks within the darksome tide;
The surge's vast unfathom’d gloom
His catacomb ;
Without a name, without a tomb.
436
Thy banks are kingdoms, where the shrine, the throne,
The pomp of human things, are changed and past;
The people—they were phantoms—they are flown;
Time hath avenged thee on their strength at last;
Thy billows idly rest on Sidon's shore,
And her bold pilots wound thy pride no more.
Rome—Athens—Carthage—what are they
Spoil'd heritage, successive prey;
New nations force their onward way,
And grasp disputed reign;
Thou changest not : thy waters pour
The same wild waves against the shore,
Where liberty had breathed before,
And slavery hugs his chain.
States bow : time's sceptre presses still
On Apennine's subsiding hill:
The steps of ages, crumbling slow,
Are stamp'd upon his arid brow :
No trace of time is left on thee,
Unchanging sea 1
Created thus, and still to be.
437
Seal of almightiness itself th’ immense
And glorious mirror! how thy azure face
Renews the heavens in their magnificence
What awful grandeur rounds thy heaving space
Thy surge two worlds, eternal-warring, sweeps,
And God's throne rests on thy majestic deeps.
438
FROM.
“T H E G E NIUS OF MAN.”
CANTO III.
“BUT how compute th’ immeasurable height
Of nature's Ruler, thy great Infinite
And must we own a Power that lives through space,
Whom thought can ne'er conceive nor spirit trace
Chance has created all; th’ eternal mould
Of matter bade the link'd effects unfold :
End, principle, and midst of all the whole,
Not God, but Nature is the ruling soul.
She, unexhausted, rests not, grows not old,
Still born anew and round her endless circle roll’d.
—Yes!—powerful God thou Being without bound !
I feel thy dread immensity confound
439
My trembling powers; thy Essence soars above
My reach of thought; yet may my grateful love
Disperse the night that shrouds thy majesty,
Half lift thy veil, and draw me nearer thee.”
Obscure blasphemer! can thy scoffs exclude
God from his works make heaven a solitude 2
The sky’s vast plan, worlds piled o'er worlds proclaim
With clear re-echoing voice the Maker's name.
Iisten in starry midnight's silent hour,
And every star shall speak the Godhead's power.
That hand immortal, which, immense, could trace
Unnumber'd orbits in the peopled space,
Governs the comet’s course, whose streaming hair
In flight of radiance sweeps the void of air :
His golden compass bounds the pillar'd sky,
He hung yon spacious canopy on high ;
Lit up the heaven, with burning lamps besprent,
And placed the sun within his azure tent.
The sun–thy shadow, God the mirror where
The mortal eye may look, and trace thee there !
But he, this God, who shines above our heads,
Rides on the storm and in the whirlwind treads;
440
Who brings to mortal sense his grandeur nigh
In voice of thunder and immensity,
Not dreadful, not approachless, oft arrays
His peaceful glory with a calmer blaze.
The hearts, their God would fain console, then prove
His unveil'd grace in objects which they love.
Witness those eyes of innocence, where shine
Marks of his presence and a light divine.
He paints the forehead of the blushing maid,
And tints the humblest floweret of the shade.
'Tis he, with yearly flight, from Egypt's sands
Recals the birds, that haunt our stranger lands;
He cheers the Laplander's enliven'd wild,
And straggling flowers midst wintry snows have smiled.
Yes—all things his sublime existence speak
To simple hearts, that fain would know and seek:
Who seek him, find : he comforts, he befriends,
And proves his being when he blessing sends.
O ye, who make a faith in God your scorn,
What succour bring ye to the poor forlorn ?
What promise to the care-bent wretch impart,
Who feels despair an arrow in his heart?
44 l
How ease of long remorse the guilty load,
When, spurn’d of man, the soul would lean on God
Inhuman thus to rend all hope away
From hearts where sin’s assailing sufferings prey;
To break that anchor of the soul, where grief
Has fix’d her hand, impatient of relief!
No judge absolves, if God be snatch'd away,
To innocence no father, grief no stay.
O faith ! our want, our refuge in distress'
Without thee life were gall and weariness.
Man girds himself with fortune's gifts in vain;
Her splendour brings satiety and pain.
Let God, in awful banishment, depart,
Life's tedium steeps in heaviness the heart;
God’s absence still prolong’d within the soul,
Despair has reach'd him and possest him whole.
This state endures not : with no arm to save
The reprobate has plunged within his grave.
Lord of his lot, 'tis man alone, who dies
A self-devoted, cruel sacrifice.
For him alone life's pleasures fade around;
'Tis his own heart has dealt th' assassin's wound :
442
Then, reft of hope, the soul shall view the tomb
Her being's limit, an eternal gloom :
The spark immortal and divine dethrone,
And with her God's dread ruin drag her own.
Whatever social ills may press us round,
Thou sense of God l exalting and profound !
'Tis thou to earth's sad children break'st the shock;
Thou meet'st the poet on his lonely rock,
Reveal'st JEHOVAH to his ardent gaze,
And tunest his lips to confidence and praise.
God thought sublime ! to which, midst pleasures vain,
Our human weakness conscious turns again;
These are the blessings thou to man hast given,
And thus religion links the earth and heaven.
Who shall disown thee —God withdrawn, a veil
Shrouds the dim earth and yon bright heavens turn pale:
Laws—morals—virtue prone to dust are hurl’d,
An aimless system, and an orphan world !
443
C ASIMIR D E L A VIGN E.
FROM THE MASSENIAN ELEGIES.
BATTLE OF WATER LOO.
THEY breathe no longer—let their ashes rest
Clamour unjust and calumny
They stoop’d not to confute, but flung their breast
Against the phalanx of your enemy,
And thus avenged themselves: for you they die.
Wo to you! wo—if those inhuman eyes
Can spare no drops to mourn your country's weal;
Shrinking before your selfish miseries,
Against the common sorrow hard as steel:
Tremble—the hand of death upon you lies;
You may, yourselves, be forced to feel.
444
But no—what son of France has spared his tears
For her defenders, dying in their fame *
Though kings return, desired through lengthening years,
What old man's cheek is tinged not with her shame?
What veteran, who their fortune's treason hears,
Feels not the quickening spark of his old youthful
flame *
Great heaven what lessons mark that one day's
page
What ghastly symbols that might crowd an age
How shall th’ historic muse record the day,
Nor, starting, cast the trembling pen away ?
Hide from me, hide those soldiers overborne,
Broken with toil; with death-bolts crush’d and torn;
Those quivering limbs with dust defiled,
And bloody corses upon corses piled:
Veil from mine eyes that monument
Of nation against nation spent
In struggling rage, that pants for breath ;
Spare us the bands thou sparedst—death!
Oh WARUs ſ—where the warriors thou hast led
RESTORE our LEGIONs!—give us back the dead!
445
I see the broken squadrons reel;
The steeds plunge wild with spurning heel;
Our eagles trod in miry gore,
The leopard standards swooping o'er;
The wounded on their slow cars dying,
The rout disorder'd, wavering, flying; .
Tortured with struggles vain, the throng
Sway, shock, and drag their shatter'd mass along ;
\ And leave, behind their long array,
Wrecks, corses, blood, the foot-marks of their way.
Through whirlwind, smoke, and flashing flame,
Oh grief! what sight appals mine eye
The SACRED BAND, with generous shame,
Sole 'gainst an army, pause—to die!
Struck with the rare devotion, 'tis in vain
The foes, at gaze, their blades restrain;
And, proud to conquer, hem them round: the cry
Returns; “the guard surrender not—they die l’’
See then these heroes, long invincible,
Whose threatening features still their conquerors
brave ;
Frozen in death, those eyes are terrible;
Feats of the past their deep-scarr'd brows engrave:
446
For these are they, who bore Italia's sun,
Who o'er Castilia's mountain-barrier pass'd;
The north beheld them o'er the rampart run
Which frosts of ages round their Russia cast;
All sank subdued before them, and the date
Of combats owed this guerdon to their glory,
Seldom to Franks denied, to fall elate
On some proud day, that should survive in story.
Let us no longer mourn them : for the palm,
Unwithering, shades those features stern and calm ;
Franks! mourn we for ourselves; our land's disgrace,
'The proud, mean passions that divide her race.
What age so rank in treasons to our blood
The love is alien of the common good;
Friendship, no more unbosom’d, hides her tears,
And man shuns man, and each his fellow fears;
Scared from her sanctuary, faith shuddering flies
The din of oaths, the vaunt of perjuries.
O cursed delirium ! jars deplored
That yield our home-hearths to the stranger's sword
Our faithless hands but draw the gleaming blade
To wound the bosom which its edge should aid.
447
The strangers raze our fenced walls,
The castle stoops, the city falls:
Insulting foes their truce forget;
Th’ unsparing war-bolt thunders yet:
Flames glare our ravaged hamlets o'er,
And funerals darken every door:
Drain’d provinces their greedy prefects rue,
Beneath the lilied or the triple hue ;
And Franks, disputing for the choice of power,
Dethrone a banner or proscribe a flower.
France l—to our fierce intolerance we owe
The ills that from these sad divisions flow :
'Tis time the sacrifice were made to thee
Of our suspicious pride, our civic enmity :
Haste —quench the torches of intestine war;
Heaven points the lily as our army's star;
Raise, then, the banner of the white—some tears
May bathe the thrice-dyed flag which Austerlitz endears.
France | France 1 awake with one indignant mind!
With new-born hosts the throne's dread precinct bind;
Disarm’d, divided, conquerors o'er us stand—
Present the olive, but the sword in hand l—
448
U N I O N.
O THOU ' to whom the universe
Breathes forth its homage or its curse,
Fortune 1–whose hand from east to west
Dispenses laurels, sceptres, chains,
Is thy blind fury laid to rest,
Or yet what triumph, what reverse remains 2
The bruit of our disasters speaks thy power;
The game was bloody which thou play’dst for France;
Too haughty in the rights they late have known,
The people with a sovereign step advance
Trampling the wreck of Capet's throne;
But, in their fierce, ungovernable hour,
To the disdain of law they freedom urge,
And reason push to frenzy’s verge.
449
When a new king arose, whose crested deeds
At once upbore him to the height; he stood
With despot sceptre, and, like shiver'd reeds,
Dash'd the republic's fasces, dropping blood :
Exhausted victory must his throne cement,
And heroism be squander'd wild away :
Europe, defied, beneath his glory bent;
She now insults our setting day:
And wherefore ?—they but live in memory,
The flower of France's chivalry,
Nipp'd by the snow-blast of the north's fell sky:
O pity! O disaster! O dismay !
O ever sad, too memorable day!
When through our sabled land arose the cry !
Yes—they lie dead; and Moscow’s fiery cloud
With glare funereal lights their frozen shroud.
Reigns of a moment! falls and slippery turns !
Changes, that mock belief! your leaven spreads
Through France's turbid spirits: hatred burns
Within us; discord all her poisons sheds.
Deaf to the terrors of the warning time,
Uncheck'd the feverous hope that fires his veins,
2 G
450
The proud republican aspires to climb
To liberty that spurns at reins:
The harvest of his liberty was crime;
Illusive ocean, which no mound restrains;
It lies before me, that tremendous strand,
Strewn with the wrecks of a distracted land.
Ah! turn them into profitable woes
To civil storms a dike oppose;
Ye powers! ye mighty rivals | ye that spring
From people and from king,
Free, yet dependent, make the sovran throne
A rampart 'gainst our will, a curb upon its own.
In vain would reason charm the mind
Of egotism and pride, the deaf and blind;
The past's idolater the now disdains,
Jealous that princes have been loosed from chains;
Yet bends the brow to prejudice's stroke,
And headstrong stoops beneath her welcome yoke.
Eternal factions ! most legitimate
When fastest throned on ruins of the state;
45]
Proscribed, proscribing, raised or trampled down,
Now victim, tyrant now ; a scaffold or a crown |
O hapless empire see thy destiny |
Franks! say no more “to us our France is dear;”
She disavows th’ ungrateful progeny,
Strangling each other, and her breast your bier:
Turn 'gainst the foes the courage of your brave;
The conqueror's conclave weigh your France's fate;
The kings, that brought her incense, each her slave,
Sell freedom to her in her fall’n estate.
No—not in vain the voice of France has call’d ;
And, if they deem, by treaties base enthrall’d,
To brand us with a stigma on the brow
Darkening for ever, as it blackens now ;
If with their haughty finger they describe
The cities parted to the faithless tribe,
The traiterous crowned league ; if the seal’d troth
Be falsified, the sword annul the oath ;
If France be done to die—arise ! yet save
Her honour, or be buried in her grave :
What do I hear 2—whence that ecstatic sound
That rolling onward thickens as it rolls 2
452
What songs, what transports, not from tongues, but
souls?
What concourse murmuring, deepening round
The citizens rush gathering from afar,
Their noble spirits blazing at their eyes:
Clasp'd they detain each other; veterans brave
Lift now their foreheads, plough’d with many a scar:
The stranger's gone !—the chain in shivers flies—
Frenchman thou art no longer slave
Re-assume thy proud spirit
- O country august
Thy glory inherit,
And start from thy dust
O country ! O freedom, no longer a slave,
Doff the robe of thymourning, come forth from thy grave!
Thrice ten years of conquest avenge us in story,
And the stranger may vaunt of the gleam of his glory! (23)
453
C H R IS TI A N G R. E. E. C. E.
MESSENE’s daughter! weeping o'er her hearse !
Muse! that in plaintive and majestic verse
Sing'st grand reverses, noble woes'
Thou left'st thy natal bower, when Francia lay,
Like Greece, a captive; homeward bend thy way,
And weep for griefs, more terrible than those !
*Twixt Fvan's mountain and the beetling steep
Of Taenarus, the shore-pent surges sweep,
Bathing sad Coron's walls: no more the same,
This barb’rous sound supplants Colone's name:
All, all is lost to Greece; sweet Plato's tongue,
The palm of combats, prodigies of art,
Into the waste of years depart,
And ev'n the names on which entranced we hung.
454
These wave-beat walls, half-crumbled with the shock
Of bolts, which Venice launch'd against the rock,
Are Coron: o'er th’ unpeopled precinct waves
The crescent, and the Turk reigns calm o'er graves:
See ye the turbans o'er the ramparts stray ?
The flag profane, that chased the blessed cross away :
See ye the horse-hair standards flout the towers ?
Hear ye the misbeliever's voice, that pours
Its watch-cry on the hollow-dashing strand
The arquebuss is gleaming in his hand.
The sun hangs hovering o'er the ocean's bound,
And gazes on the clime of yore renown'd;
Ev’n as the weed-clad lover's eyes explore
His mistress' features; though they bloom no more,
Yet is their charm more touching, fix’d in death :
How lingering sinks his orb l—what balm the breath
Of eve's gale whispers l—how the blazing wave
Sparkles with flush of light the day-star gave!
But day can gild no more the region of the slave.
Hark! 'tis the stifled dash of balanced oars
With equal rise and fall their strokes are plied;
455
His eye still bent upon those sunset shores,
One in a skiff is skimming the salt tide.
A servant of the temple, ’tis his care
To deck the altar; fill the fuming air
From the waved censer; to the words divine
Respond, and minister the mystic wine.
He drops the oars; a lute his grasp supplies;
O'er the twitch'd trembling chord his finger flies;
He lifts his voice, a prophet strain;
The hymn of David seems to breathe again ;
But, like the halcyon's low, sweet, ominous cry,
Which turns the seaman pale, for storm is nigh.
“Haunts where my foot-sole dares not rest,
In the lone bark the chord is prest;
And nightly sends its low-breathed sound
To the hoarse billows roaring round:
Our sad estate my theme has been,
As captive Hebrews sigh'd their moan
Beneath the drooping willows green
That arch'd the streams of Babylon.”
456
“But they could still adore the Lord though slaves,
They fearless mourn’d beside their father's graves;
Mingling their tears they mingled hopes; but I
To weep in peace an exile fly.”
“Thy ministers of wrath, they wrest
The last, poor, fluttering, flimsy vest
That veils the widow’s keen distress,
That screens the orphan's wretchedness;
With ruffian gripe they re-demand
The wheat-ear glean'd upon our field;
And gold must cross their grasping hand,
For the fresh rills our fountains yield.”
“Gold they have ravish'd it; the treasures fell
From our stripp'd shrines by shameful oracle
Of dicer's lot; their gems profanely graced
The pack by whom our deer are chased.”
“Thy voice, O nature | once so dear
Is stifled by the stranger's fear;
The brother sees his brother low,
Nor rushes to revenge the blow ;
457
The aged man resigns the meal,
His children's board the robber's booty;
The mother hears their trampling heel,
With curses on her daughter's beauty.”
“ Kings, when our Greece their help demands,
Are niggard of their armed bands;
Dispute th’ appendage of their crowns,
People enslaved and shatter'd towns;
And while the Turkish poniards drain
Our Christian blood, the despots then,
As flocks are parted on the plain,
Share and allot the tribes of men.
A fleeting narrative, a vain appeal
Speaks of our woes to hearts that cannot feel;
Courts in luxurious ease the tale admire—
And are we brethren—yet expire *
“The bird, that wings the fields, has rest
And shelter in his cradling nest;
The fawn has couch'd within the glade;
The hare beneath the herbage blade;
458
The worm can delve her fruitage-bed ;
The woodland insect, clung below
The falling leaf, eludes the tread;
The tomb’s retreat is all we know.”
“Blest, who a Christian dies: their savage zeal
Hear it great God! converts by fire and steel:
Ev’n in that ſane where peace and hope of old
Flow'd on our hearts from lips of gold.
'Twas on this shore, where pagan guilt
Th’ abhorred idols' shrines had built,
The words of saints the seed had sown
Of worship pure to thee alone:
The tree, that struck in wilds its root,
Whose leaves should fold the world in shade
On ruins blooms with bitter fruit;
y
For us it blossoms but to fade.”
“God l in the days of her past glory free,
Greece worshipp'd not th’ Eternal Word: to thee
True, living God! she kneels in bondage now ;
Shall her false Jove do more than thou?”
459
He sang; he wept; when from his turret-stand
The Moslem rose, and sprang with armed hand;
O'er the stretch'd tube is bent the turban’d brow;
The sparkle bursts—the nitre smokes—and now
A shrilling sound is in the breeze; and hark'
A cry--from whence from that lone, floating bark?—
Is it thy shriek, poor Levite thine the lute
Dropp'd with that plaintive moan —the dying hymn
is mute.
But night already cast her shadowing veil;
Lost in the rolling vapours pale,
The random skiff now oarless, guideless, strayed
Without a voice, and vanish’d into shade.
The night was stormy; with the sun's first ray,
Measuring with fearful glance th’ extended bay,
At the tower's foot an old man watch'd alone :
Midst flakes of foam, amid the pebbles thrown,
A lute has caught his eye; a lute, whose string
A mortal ball had grazed with leaden wing;
One chord, untwisted, on the concave lay
With blood-stains red, diluted by the spray;
The old man darts upon the lyre's remains;
Stoops, handles, shudders through his anguish’d veins;
460
On Coron’s towns he bends a lowering eye,
But on his faint lips sinks the threatening cry.
He trembles at the scene, and turns aside
With stifled groan and steals along the tide:
His burden’d heart is bursting for relief;
He spurns the ruthless eyes that curb his grief:
Looks up to heaven, sole witness of his wo,
And to the roaring surges murmurs low,
“But yesternight I waited long for thee
Who didst not come ; and thou dost wait for me!”
46 l
P A R T H E N O P E A N D T H E
S T R A N G E R.
“WHAT would'st thou, lady?”—An asylum. “Say
What is thy crime?” None. “Who accuse thee?” They
Who are ungrateful. “Who thine enemy "
Each, whom the succour of my sword set free,
Adored but yesterday, proscribed to-day.
“What shall my hospitality repay "
A day’s short peril; laws eternal. “Who
Within my city dare thy steps pursue *
Kings. “When arrive they?” With the morn. “From
whence P”
From every side. Say, shall thy gate's defence
Be mine “Yes—enter—but reveal to me
Thy name, O stranger!”—I am LIBERTY
462
Receive her, ramparts old ! again,
For ye her dwelling were of yore;
Receive her midst your gods once more,
O every antique fane!
Rise, shades of heroes! hover o'er
To grace her awful train.
Fair sky of Naples | laugh with gladdening rays;
Bring forth O earth ! thy hosts on every side;
Sing, O ye people ! hymn the goddess' praise;
'Tis she for whom Leonidas once died.
Her brows all idle ornaments refuse;
Half-open'd flowers compose her diadem;
Rear'd in Thermopylae with gory dews,
Not twice a thousand years have tarnish'd them.
The wreath immortal sheds a nameless balm
Which courage raptured breathes: in accents calm,
Yet terrible, her conquering voice disarms
The rebel to her sway: her eyes impart
A holy transport to the panting heart,
And virtue only boasts superior charms.
463
The people pause around her; and their cries
Ask, from what cause these kings, forgetting ruth,
Cherish their anger ?—the strange maid replies,
“Alas! I told to monarchs truth !
If hate or if imprudence in my name
Had shook their power, which I would but restrain,
Why should I bear the burden of the blame *
And are they Germans, who would forge my chain "
“Have they forgot, these slaves of yesterday,
Who now oppress you with their tyrant sway,
How, in sore straitness when to me they cried,
I join'd their phalanx by Arminius' side
Rallying their bands, I scoop'd the blood-tinged snows
In gaping death-beds for their sinking foes.”
“Avenge! ye gods ! that look upon my wrong!
And may the memory of my bounties past
Pursue these ingrates; dog their scattering throng;
May Odin's sons upon the cloudy blast
With storm-wrapt brows above them stray,
Glare by them in the lightning's midnight ray;
464
And may Rome's legions, with whose whitening bones
I strew'd their plains in ages past,
Rise in their sight and chase them to their thrones!”
“Ha!—and does Rome indeed sepulchred lie
In her own furrow’s crumbling mould
Shall not my foot with ancient potency
Stamp, and from earth start forth her legions old f"
“Feel'st thou not Rome ! within thy entrails deep,
The cold bones shaking, and the spirits stir,
Of citizens that, in their marble sleep,
Rest under many a trophied sepulchre P"
“Break, Genoese ! your chains: th’ impatient flood
Murmurs, till ye from worthless sloth have started,
And proudly heaves beneath your floating wood,
Where streams the flag, whose glory is departed.”
“Fair widow of the Medici !—be born 1
Again, thou noble Florence now unclasp
Thy arms to my embrace: from slavery's grasp
Breathe free in independence’ stormy morn.”
465
“O Neptune's daughter, Venice city fair
As Venus, and that didst like her emerge
From the foam-silver'd, beauty-ravish’d surge,
Let Albion see thee thy shorn beams repair:
Doge' in my name command ' within your walls
Proclaim me, senate 1–Zeno ! wake—
Aside thy sleep, Pisani ! shake—
'Tis Liberty that calls "
She spoke—and a whole people, with one will,
Caught that arousing voice: the furnace-light
Glow'd, and the hardening steel grew white;
Against the biting file the edge rang shrill;
Far clang'd the anvil; bray'd the trumpet; one
Furbish'd his lance, and one his steed's caparison.
The father throws the weight of years aside,
Accoutring glad the youngest of his sons;
Nor tarries, but his steps outruns,
And foremost joins the lines with emulous stride;
The sister, smiling at his spleen, detains
The baby-warrior, who the lap disdains,
And cries, “I go to die upon the plains.”
2 H
466
*=
Then what did they, or might they not have done,
Whose courage manhood nerved or say, could one
Repose his hope in flight, or fear the death
Claim’d by the aged and the infant breath
Yes—all with common voice exclaim’d aloud,
“We sit beneath thy laurel, and will guard
Its leaves from profanation; take, O bard
Thy lyre, and sing our feats, their best reward :
For Virgil's sacred shroud
Shall ne'er be spurn’d by victor footstep proud.”
They march’d—this warlike people—in their scorn :
And ere one moon had fill'd her horn,
Th' oppressor German took his rouze
And drain’d his draughts of Rhenish tranquilly ;
And they lay round him, shelter'd by the boughs
Of Virgil's laurel-tree.
With eyes averted, Liberty had fled :
Parthenope recall’d her. She her head
Bent, for a moment, from the height of air—
“Thou hast betray'd thy guest: befall thee fairl”
Art gone for ever?—“They await me.” Where
467
“IN GREECE.” They will pursue thee thither too.
“Defenders will be found.” They, too, may yield,
And numbers there may sweep them from the field
“Aye; but 'tis possible To DIE—adieu !”
468
DE BE RAN G. E. R.
THE SPOT OF REFU GE.
"TWAs a chief of valorous exiles
Sought a shelter o'er the wave;
From a jealous, savage nation
An asylum for the brave :
“Europe banish’d us : ye children
Of the forests | hear our story;
Indians ! listen—we are Frenchmen ;
Take ye pity on our glory !”
“That it is still quails the monarchs,
Drives us from our straw-roof’d shed ;
Thence we sprang, our rights avenging;
Twenty kingdoms bow'd the head;
469
Peace we conquer’d, long retreating
As our banners onward came ;
Indians ! listen—we are Frenchmen;
Take ye pity on our fame !”
“Albion trembled in her Indies,
When our soldiers' joyous shout
From the pyramids’ dark chambers
Forced the ancient echoes out:
Centuries are too short to number
These exploits so high in story;
Indians | listen—we are Frenchmen—
122
Take ye pity on our glory !
“From our ranks a man emerging,
Said, ‘The god of earth am I :’
Vagrant kings in haggard terror
Crouch'd before his lightning eye :
From afar they hail'd his palace,
As their god conjured his name:
Indians ! listen—we are Frenchmen ;
Take ye pity on our fame!”
470
“But he fell—his veteran soldiers
With one comrade plough the deep;
Wandering to your distant climate
They their country's blessings weep :
May that country rise for ever
From the Loire's fierce wreck and shame!
Indians! listen—we are Frenchmen;
Take ye pity on our fame !”
He was silent.—Then a savage
Answer'd, “God the storm hath stay'd :
Warriors! share ye in our treasures—
Rivers, fields, and forest-shade:
On the tree of peace inscribe we
Words of one of warlike name;
* Indians ! listen—we are Frenchmen;
1, 2,
Take ye pity on our fame !
Soil of refuge thou art hallow'd
Here th’ asylum-city place;
Haven sure 'gainst faithless fortune
For the hapless of our race :
471
Here, perchance, our sons, relating
Deeds, that may transcend our story,
Shall exclaim, “Lo we are Frenchmen,
Take ye pity on our glory !”
472
A LPH O N S E D E L A M A RT IN E.
DEDICATION OF “A LAST CANTO TO CHILDE HAROLD.”
TO
REMEMBEREST thou the day, when, climbing slow
Saleva's azured crest, our footsteps clung,
Tottering, within the narrow path, that hung
O'er the dizzy chasm below
Thou trod'st th' ascent before me; round thy form
The pines and larch-trees rock'd them in the storm ;
Bent to thy passage the reluctant spray,
And dash'd thy brow with tears of opening day.
473
Beneath thy feet a tumbling torrent broke,
Crushing its shiver'd waters into smoke;
Whose furrow'd track was dyed
In dusky greenness on the cliffs beside :
The light play’d glancing in their wreaths of snow,
And the tost foam-flakes bathed us from below.
A cloud, low-muttering thunder, still reposed
On air's far western verge of murky hue;
But eastward morn’s light breath had half-disclosed
A sky of limpid blue :
O'er Leman's lake, in dazzling azure roll’d,
The tinted vapour blush'd with flamy gold.
Sudden upon a rock I saw thee stand
With eyes bent down on me, and beckoning hand;
Thy finger traced to my aspiring sight
The rushing wave, the craggy height,
The mountain depth's immensity,
The earth, the heaven—and I beheld but thee!
Thy foot seem’d starting from the mount; thine eye
O'er the dread scope hung hovering from on high ;
474
A weight of transport lay upon thy breast,
That throbb’d beneath its heaving vest,
As the pent waters rise and sink,
Quivering with flame, and leap the vase's brink.
Thy hand was on the crag ; the gusty air
Swept the sprent moisture from thy glistening hair;
Its locks, dishevell’d on the breeze's whirls,
Dropp'd slowly at thy feet their trilling pearls.
Wild, mountain flowers had tapestried the ground;
And the blanched cataract's foam, that flitted round,
Thy shape, as in a colour’d prism, enroll’d,
And wrapp'd thee in the mist's transparent fold.
Thou seemedst—no—the frozen image fain
Would trace thee, but in vain.
No human semblance—nought
But such as a celestial thought
Might shape in some dream's saintly ecstasy,
When, poised in air, on fiery wings
From the pure heart upborne, it springs
Ev’n to the mansion of Divinity
And soars above th' empyreal sky.
475
I saw thee thus, and vow'd to consecrate
That fleeting moment, ere 'twas snatch'd by fate.
Here I inscribe thy name—thy hand, ere traced,
From the frail record has the name effaced.
But, some no distant day,
When I shall see thee muse upon the lay
Whose sole futurity
Of glory centres in a glance from thee;
If then thy soften’d eyes in vain
The tear, that trickles on my lyre, restrain,
Ah! may’st thou then confess,
Low to thyself, in whisper'd tenderness,
“The lay that thus my soul subdues
Twas I inspired—my memory was his muse !”
476
E XT R A CT
FROM “A LAST CANTO TO CHILDE HAROLD.”
LOVEST thou not, Nature him who loveth thee
Hast thou no pity for my life's last hour *
And, in the moment of my sigh’d farewell,
Canst thou not mourn, and veil thyself in clouds,
While yet I gaze upon thee —Yes—these eyes
Would look less sadly on their closing hour,
Could I believe that any thing in thee
Laments me: that the heavenly beam, which lights
The morrow’s morn, could shed upon my turf
A paler day, and that the streams, the winds
And falling leaves, could murmur “he is gone !
Hush we our sounds in silence o'er his grave.”
But no—to-morrow thou wilt glitter forth
Ev’n as to-day. Yet if for one thy tear
Could fall, O Nature 'tis for him : no, never,
477
Of beings moulded out of dust and flame,
Did any more entirely blend his soul
With thy pure elements: no mortal spirit
With deeper apprehension caught thy voice;
When, breathing the brown horror of the woods,
My melancholy footstep stirr'd their shades,
Troubling, alone, the mausolean boughs
With startled echoes: or upon the crags
Of mountains, rising in the gleaming air
Like sea-rocks, I have heard the thunder roll,
And seen the lightning, flash on flash, escape
From out the shock of clouds; or, deep within,
Like the storm’s eye, glare with ensanguined fire :
Or, loosing to the gusts my sail, have plough'd
The ocean's moving gulfs, and loved to muse
Upon the foamy billow, as it dash'd
Itself in smoking ruin 'gainst my skiff,
Yet bore me far on its triumphant crest,
Ev’n as a lion gambols with a child.
The more unhappy, thou wert holier to me:
The more men drew apart, and left this soul
To stanch its wounds alone, the more thy voice
In solitude, the refuge of the wretched,
478
Became my comforter, and charm'd my grief
Away: and still, ev’n now, at my last hour,
My drooping eyelids seek thee, and I feel
But one regret, that I shall see no more
Thy sun; thy sun, all-radiant in his noon,
Whose beam shall glow upon my scarce-cold marble !
N O'I' E. S.
(23) De la Vigne exhibits, on the subject of Waterloo, more
candour and temper than others of his poetic contemporaries. He
does not deal in vulgar satire or invective; and, what is a great
merit in a Frenchman, he admits that the French were actually
routed. Like others of his countrymen, however, he has not only
warm feelings, but a short memory. The space traversed by his
eye is filled only by Waterloo. General Foy could have informed
him, that the French troops, who returned from AEgypt, astonished
the people by stories of the valour with which the English soldiers
fought. Colonel Napier may, perhaps, remind him of the cam-
paigns of the Spanish peninsula. Bonaparte, a consummate mili-
tary historian and critic, (his natural prejudices in regard to
Waterloo excepted,) could have recalled to his remembrance the
name of Marlborough.
A defence of the plan and position of the Duke of Wellington,
against the attacks of the French military critics, will be found in
the appendix to Sir Walter Scott's Life of Napoleon, from the pen
of an officer of the English artillery. The objection of Gourgaud,
“Campagne de 1815,” that, when the British centre was attacked,
480
no grand manoeuvre was executed by the English general from his
wings, is amusing. Napoleon, it seems, was prepared for it, and
had provided against it: no doubt: but the English army “resta
dans son immobilité.” This was provoking. It assured them a
victory which General Foy, in the same strain, explains, though
with a fair compliment to the impenetrability of the British masses,
by “the force of inertness.” It were ill-natured to find fault with
so happy an ingenuity in diminishing the glory of a battle, the
results of which, even to the boasted fortuitous junction of Blucher
and his Prussians, had been all along foreseen, pre-arranged, and
calculated by the MoDERN FABIUs. Cunctando restituit rem.
chilcott, PRINTER, win E Street, BRISTOL.
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