i 'A shoui — Above, some solitary casement, thrown Wide open to the wavering night wind. Admits its chill, so deathful, vet so kind, 19 20 CHRIST CHUECH, OXFORD. Unto the fevered brow and fiery eye Of one, whose night hour passeth sleeplessly. Ye melancholy chambers ! I could shun The darkness of your silence, with such fear. As places where slow murder had been done. How many noble spirits have died here, Withering away in yearnings to aspire, Gnawed by mocked hope — devoured by tlieir own fire ! Methinks the grave must feel a colder bed To spirits such as these, than unto common dead. ARISTODEMUS AT PLAT^A. [Of two Spartans who were prevented by illness from taking part in the battle of Thermopylae, and who were, in consequence, degraded to the level of helots, one, unable to endure the scorn of his countrymen, killed himself ; the other, by name Aristodemus, waited, and when, at the battle of Plataea, thirty-three thousand allied Greeks stood to receive the final and desperate attack of three hundred thousand chosen Asiatics, and the Spartans, unused to Persian arms, hung slightly back, he charged alone, and, calling to his countrj^men to "follow the coward," broke the enemy's mass, and was found, when the victorious Greeks who followed him had laid two hundred thousand of their enemy dead on the field, lying on a low hillock, with his face turned up to heaven, a group of the Persian nobles lying slaughtered around him. He was refused the honors of burial, because, it was said, he was only courageous in despair.] Ye have darkened mine honor and branded my name. Ye have quenclied its remembrance in silence and shame. Yet the heart ye call craven, unbroken, hatli borne The voice of your anger, the glance of your scorn. But the life that hath lingered is now in mine hand,* My waiting was but for a lot of the land, * T Sam. xxviii. 21, Job xiii. 14. 21 22 ARISTODEMUS AT PLAT^A, Which his measure, who ruleth the battle array. May mete for your best and your bravest to-day. My kinsmen, my brothers, your phalanx is fair, There's a shield, as I think, that should surely be there Ye have darkened its disk, and its hour hath drawn near ) To be reared as a trophy or borne as a bier * j Wliat said I ? Alas, though the foe in his flight. Should quit me unspoiled on the field of the fight. Ye would leave me to lie, with no hand to inurn. For the dog to devour, or the stranger to spurn ! What matter ? Attendants my slumber shall gi-ace. With blood on the breast, and with fear on the face ; And Sparta may own that the death hath atoned For the crime of the cursed, whose life she disowned. *[If his body were obtained by the enemy it would be reared as a trophy. If recovered by his friends, borne as a bier, unless, as he im- mediately called to mind, they should deny him funeral honors.] AKISTODEMUS AT PLATJiA. 23 By the "banks of Eurotas her maidens shall meet. And her mountains rejoice in the fall of your feet ; And the cry of your conquest be lofty and loud, O'er the lengthened array of the shield or the shroud. And the fires of the grave shall empurple the air, When they lick the white dust of the bones ye shall bear ; The priest and the people, at altar and shrine. Shall worship their manes, disdainful of mine. Yet say that they fought for the hopes of tJieir breast, For ilie hearts that had loved them, the lips that had blessed ; For the roofs that had covered, the country that claimed, The sires that had named them, the sous they had named. And say that I fought for tlie land of the free, Though its bosom of blessing beat coldly for me ; For the lips that had cursed me, the hearts that had scorned. And the desolate hope of the death unadorned. SALSETTE AND ELEPHANTA. • A PRIZE POEM. I " Religio. . . .pedibus subjecta vicissim Obteritur. Nos exaequat victoria coelo." — Lucretius. 'Tis eve — and o'er the face of parting day Quick smiles of summer lightning flit and play ; In pulses of broad light, less seen than felt, They mix in heaven, and on the mountains melt ; Their silent transport fills the exulting air — 'Tis eve, and where is evening half so fair ? Oh ! deeply, softly sobs the Indian sea O'er thy dark sands, majestic Dharavee,* When, from each purple hill and polished lake. The answering voices of the night awake The fitful note of many a brilliant bird, — The lizard's plunge, o'er distant waters heard, — * The southern promontory of the island of Salsette. 24 SALSETTE AND ELEPHANTA. 25 The thrill of forest leaves — how soft, how swift That floats and follows where the night-winds drift ; Or, piercing through the calmness of the sky, The jangle tiger's sharj) and sudden cry. Yet all is peace, for these weak voices tell How deep the calm they break but not dispel. The twilight heaven rolls on, like some deep stream When breezes break not on its moving dream ; Its trembling stars continual watches keep And pause above Canarah's haunted steep ;* Each in its path of first ascension hid Behind the height of that pale pyramid, — (TlTe strength of nations hewed the basalt spire, f And barbed its rocks like sacrificial fire. ) Know they the hour's approach, whose fateful flight Was watched of yore from yonder cloudless height ? Lone on its utmost peak, the Prophet Priest Beheld the night unfolded from the East ; * The central peak of Salsette. f M. Anguetil du Perron, in his aceounLs of Canarah, says that its peak appears to have been hewn to a point by human art as an emblem of the solar ray. 26 SALSETTE aXD ELEPHAXTA. In prescient awe perused its blazing scroll, And read the records stretched from Pole to Pole ; And though their eyes are dark, their lips are still. Who watched and Avorshipped on Canarah's hill, Wild superstition's visionary power Still rules and fills the spirit of the hour : The Indian maiden, through the scented groTC, Seeks the dim shore, and lights the lamp of love ; The pious peasant, awe-struck and alone. With radiant garland crowns the purple stone,* And shrinks, returning through the star-lit glade. When breezes stir the peepul's sacred shade ; f For well his spirit knows the deep appeal That love must mourn to miss, yet fear to feel ; Low sounds, faint rays, upon the senses shed — The voices of the lost, the dark eyes of the dead. * "A stone painted with red, and placed at the foot of their favorite tree, is sufficient to call forth the devotion of the poor, who bring to it flowers and simple offerings. "—J. S. Buckingham. f The superstitious feeling of the Indian with respect to the peepul- tree is well known. Its shade is supposed to be loved and haunted by the dead. SALSETTE AND ELEPHANTA. 2? How awful now, when niglit and silence brood O'er Earth's repose and Ocean's solitude, To trace the dim and devious paths that guide Along Canarah's steep and craggy side, Where, girt with gloom — inhabited by fear, — The mountain homes of India's gods appear ! Eange above range they rise, each hollow cave Darkling as death, and voiceless as the grave ; Save that the waving weeds in each recess With rustling music mock its loneliness ; And beasts of blood disturb, with stealthy tread. The chambers of the breathless and the dead. All else of life, of worship, past away. The ghastly idols fall not, nor decay ; Eetain the lip of scorn, the rugged frown ; And grasp the blunted sword and useless crown ; Their altars desecrate, their names untold. The hands that formed, the hearts that feared — how cold! Thou too — dark Isle ! whose shadow on the sea Lies like the gloom that mocks our memory 28 SALSETTE AND ELEPHANTA. When one bright instant of our former lot Were grief, remembered, but were guilt, forgot. Eock of the lonely crest ! how oft renewed Hare beamed the summers of thy solitude, Since first the myriad steps that shook thy shore Grew frail and few — then paused for evermore ! Answer — ye long-lulled echoes ! Where are they Who cloTe your mountains with the shafts of day ; Bade the swift life along their marble fly, And struck their darkness into deity, Nor claimed from thee — pale temple of the wave — Record or rest, a glory or a grave ? Now all are cold — the votary as his god, — And by the shrine he feared, the courts he trod, The livid snake extends his glancing trail, And lifeless murmurs mingle on the gale. Yet glorious still, though void, though desolate. Proud Dharapori ! * gleams thy mountain gate. * The Indian name for Elephanta. •^ALSETTE AND ELEPHANTA. 29 What time, emergent from the eastern wave, The keen moon's crescent lights thy sacred cave ; And moving beams confuse, with shadowy change, Thy columns' massive might and endless range. Far, far beneath, where sable waters sleep, Those radiant pillars pierce the crystal deep, And mocking waves reflect, with quivering smile. Their long recession of refulgent aisle ; * As, where Atlantis hath her lonely home. Her grave of guilt, beneath the ocean's foam ; Above the lifeless hearth and guardless gate. The wildly-walking surges penetrate. And sapphire tints of phosphor lightning fall O'er the broad pillar, and the sculptured wall. — So, Dharapori ! through thy cold repose The flooding lustre of the moonlight flows ; Xew forms of fear,f by every touch displayed, Gleam, pale and passioned, through the dreadful shade, * The interior of Elephanta is usually damp, and its floor covered with water two or three feet deep. 15y moonlight its shallowness would be unperccived. f The sculptures of Elephanta have such "horrible and fearful formes that thoy mako a man's hayro stando upright." — Linschotkn. 30 SALSETTE AND ELEPHANTA. In wreathed groups of dim, distorted life. In ghastly ^calmness, or tremendous strife ; While glaring eye und grasping hand attest The mocked emotion of the marble breast. Thus in the fevered dream of restless pain. Incumbent horror broods upon the brain. Through mists of blood colossal shajDes arise, Stretch their stitf limbs, and roll their rayless eyes. Yet knew not here the chisel's touch to trace The finer lineaments of form and face ; No studious art of delicate design Conceived the shape, or lingered on the line. The sculptor learned, on Indus' plains afar, The various pomp of worship and of war ; Impetuous ardor in his bosom woke, And smote the animation from the rock. In close battalions kingly forms advance,* Wave the broad shield, and shake the soundless lance ; * " Some of these figures have helmets of pyramidal form ; others wear crowns richly decorated with jewels ; others display large bushy ringlets of curled or flowing hair. In their hands they grasp seeptreg and shields, the symbols of justice and the ensigns of religion, the wea- SALSETTE AND ELEPHANTA. 31 With dreadful crests adorned, and orient gem. Lightens the helm and gleams the diadem ; Loose o'er their shoulders falls tlieir tloAving hair With A^^anton wave, and mocks the unmoving air ; Broad o'er their breasts extend the guardian zones Broidered with flowers, and bright with mystic stones ; Poised in aetherial march they seem to swim. Majestic motion marked in every limb ; In changeful guise they pass — a lordly train, Mighty in passion, unsubdued in pain ; * Revered as monarchs, or as gods adored. Alternately they rear the sceptre and the sword. Such were their forms and such their martial mien. Who met by Indus' shores the Assyrian queen, f When, with reverted force, tlie Indian dyed His javelin in the pulses of her pride, pons of war and the trophies of peace." — Maurice, Aniiq. of India, vol. ii., p. 145. ■■■■ Many of them have countenances expressive of mental suffering. f Semiramis. M. D'Aiicarville supposes the cave to liave Ijocn ex- Ciivated by her army ; and insists on the similarity between the costume of the sculptured figures and that of her Indian adversaries. — See D'Aiicarville, vol. i., p. 121. I 33 SALSETTE AND ELEPHANTA. I I And cast in death-heaps, by the purple flood. Her strength of Babylonian multitude. 1 And mightier ones are there — apart — divine. Presiding genii of the mountain slirine : | Behold, the giant group, the united three, | j Faint symbol of an unknown Deity ! | Here, frozen into everlasting trance, i I 1 Stern Siva's quivering lip and hooded glance ; There, in eternal majesty serene, • Proud Brahma's painless brow and constant mien ; There glows the light of Veeshnu's guardian smile. But on the crags that shade yon inmost aisle Shine not, ye stars ! Annihilation's lord * There waves, with many an arm, the unsated sword. Eelentless holds the cup of mortal pain, { And shakes the spectral links that wreathe his ghastly \ chain. ■ 1 Oh, could these lifeless lips be taught to tell [ (Touched by Chaldean art, or Arab spell) * Alluding to a scailpture representing the evil principle of India ; he seems engaged in human sacrifice, and wears a necklace of skulls. SALSETTE AND ELEPHAIS^TA. 33 Wlia-t totaries here have knelt, what victims died, In pangs, their gladness, or in crimes, their pride, How should we shun the awful solitude. And deem the intruding footsteps dashed in blood ! How might the altar-hearths grow warm and red, And the air shadowy with avenging dead ! Behold ! — he stirs — that cold, colossal king ! — 'Tis but the uncertain shade the moonbeams fling ; Hark ! a stern voice awakes with sudden thrill ! — 'Twas but the wandering wind's precarious will : The distant echo dies, and all the cave is still. Yet Fancy, floating on the uncertain light. Fills with her crowded dreams the course of night ; At her wild will gethereal forms appear, And sounds, long silent, strike the startled ear : Behold the dread Mithratic rite reclaim * Its pride of ministers, its pomp of flame ! * Throughout the description of tlu- rites of ]Millir;i, I have followed jNIaurice, whose indefatigable research seems almost to have demon- strated the extreme antiquity, at least, of the Elcphanta cavern, as well as its application to the worship of the solar orb, and of lire. For a detailed account of this worship, see Maurice, Indian A)iti PART FOURTH. I. Tis morn ! — in clustered rays increased — Exulting rays, that deeply drink The starlight of the East, And strew with crocus dyes the brink Of those blue streams that pause and sink 112 THE BROKEN CHAIN. Far underneath their heavenly strand — Soft capes of yapour, ribbed like sand. Along the Loire white sails are flashing, Through stars of spray their dark oars dashing ; The rocks are reddening one by one. The purple sandbanks flushed with sun. And crowned with fire on crags and keep, Amboise ! above thy lifted steep, Far lightning o'er the subject vale. Blaze thy broad range of ramparts pale ! Through distance azure as the sky. That vale sends ujj its morning cry. From countless leaves, that shaking shade Its tangled paths of pillared glade. And ceaseless fan, with quivering cool. Each gentle stream and slumbrous pool. That catch the leaf-song as they flow. In tinkling echo pure and low, Clear, deep, and moving, as the night. And starred with orbs of lily liglit. THE BROKEN CHAIN. 113 Kor are they leaves alone that sing, Nor waves alone that flow ; The leaves are lifted on the wing Of voices from below ; The waters keep, with shade subdued. The image of a multitude — A merry crowd promiscuous met. Of every age and heart united — Gray hairs with golden twined, and yet "With equal mien and eyes delighted. With thoughts that mix, and hands that lock. Behold they tread, with hurrying feet. Along the thousand paths that meet Beneath Amboise's rock ; For there upon tlie meadows wide. That couch along the river-side. Are pitched a snowy flock Of warrior tents, like clouds that rest. Through champaigns of the quiet west. When, far in distance, stretched serene. The evening sky lies calm and green. 114 THE BROKEN CHAIN. Amboise's lord must bear to-day His loTe-gage through the rival fray ; Through all the coasts of fiery France His challenge shook the air. That none could break so true a lance, Nor for a dame so fair. II. The lists are circled round with shields. Like lily-leayes that lie On forest pools in clustered fields Of countless company. But eyery buckler's bosses black ; ■ Dash the full beams of morning back, In orbed wave of welded lines. With mingled blaze of crimson signs, And light of lineage high : As sounds that gush when thoughts are strong, But words are weak with tears. Awoke, above the warrior throng, The wind among the spears ; THE BROKE]!^" CHAIN. 115 Afar in liollow surge tlicy shook, As reeds along some summer brook, Glancing beneath the July moon, All bowed and touched in jilcasant tune ; Their steely lightning jiassed and played Alternate with the cloudy shade Of crested casques, and flying flakes Of horse-manes, twined like sable snakes. And misty plumes in darkness drifted, And charged banners broadly lifted, Purpling the air with storm-tints cast Dpwn through their undulation A'ast, Wide the billowy army strewing, Like to flags of victory From some wretched Armada's ruin. Left to robe the sea. III. As the morning star new risen in a circle of calm sky, Where the white clouds stand to listen For tlie sphered melody 116 THE BKOKEN OHAIJT. Of her planetary path. And her soft rays jiierce the wrath Of the night storms stretched below. Till they sink like wreaths of snow, (Lighting heaven Avith their decay) Into sudden silentness — Throned above the stormy stress Of that knightly host's array, Goddess-formed, as one whom mortals Need but gaze on to obey. Distant seen, as through the portals Of some temple gray ; The glory of a marble dream, : ; Kindling the eyes that gaze, the lips that pray- One gentle lady sat, retiring but supreme. IV. Upon her brow there was no crown, Upon her robe no gem ; Yet few were there who would not own Her queen of earth, and them. THE BKOKEK CHAIN. 117 Because that brow was crowned with light As with a diadem. And her quick thoughts, as they did rise. Were in the deep change of lier eyes. Traced one by one, as stars that start Out of the orbed peace of night. Still drooping as they dart, And her sweet limbs shone heavenly bright. Following with undulation white. The heaving of her heart. High she sat, and all apart, M^k of mien, with eyes declined. Less like one of mortal mind, Than some changeless spirit shrined In the memories of men, Wliom the passions of its kind Cannot hurt nor move again. V. High she sat in meekness shaming. All of best and brighest there. Till the he]-ald's voice, proclaiming 118 THE BROKEN CHAIN. Her the fairest of the fair. Rang along the morning air ; And then she started, and that shade, Which in the moonlit garden glade Had marked her with its mortal stain, Did pass upon her face again. And in her eye a sudden flash Came and was gone ; but it were rash To say if it were pride or pain ; And on her lips a smile, scarce worn. Less, as it seemed, of joy than scorn. Was with a strange quick quivering mixed. Which passed away, and left them fixed In calm, persisting, colorless. Perchance too perfect to be peace A moment more, and still serene Eeturned, yet changed — her mood and mien ; What eye that traceless change could tell. Slight, transient, — but unspeakable ! She sat, divine of soul and brow ; It passed, — and all is human now THE BROKEN CHAIX. 119 VI. The multitude, Avitli loud acclaim, Ci\uglit up the lovely lady's name ; Thrice round the lists arose the cry ; But when it sunk, and all the sky Grew doubly silent by its loss, A slow strange murmur came across The waves of the reposing air, A deep, soft voice that everywhere Arose at once, so lowly clear. That each seemed in himself to hear •■ Alone, and fixed with sweet surprise, Did ask around him, with his eyes. If t'wcrc not; some dream-music dim And false, that only rose for him, VII. " Oh, lady Queen,— Oh, lady Queen ! Fairest of all who tread The soft earth carpet green. Or breathe tlie blessings shed 120 THE BROKEN CHAIN. By tlie stars and tempest free ; Know thou, oh, lady Queen, Earth hath borne, sun hath seen, Eairer than thee. " The flush of beauty burneth In the pahices of earth, But thy lifted spirit scorneth All match of mortal birth : m And the n^mph of the hill. And the naiad of the sea. Were of beauty quenched and chill. Beside thee ! " Where the gray cypress shadows Move onward with the moon, Eound the low mounded meadows. And the grave-stones, whitely hewn. Gleam like camp-fires through the night. There, in silence of long swoon. In the horror of decay ; With the worm for their delight. And the shroud for their array, THE BROKEN CHAIN. 121 Witli the garland on their brow, And the black cross by their side. With the darkness for their beauty. And the dust for their pride, With the smile of baffled pain On the cold lips half apart, With the dimness on the brain. And the peace upon the heart ; Even sunk in solemn shade. Underneath the cypress tree. Lady Queen, there are laid ,. Fairer than thee ! " VIII. It passed away^ that melodie, But none the minstrel there could see ; The lady sat still calm of thouglit. Save that there rose a narrow spot Of crimson on her check ; But then, the words were far and weak. Perchance she heard them not. The crowd still listening, feared to si)eak. 132 THE BROKEN" CHAIN". And only mixed in sympatliy Of joressing hand and wondering eve. And left the lists all hushed and mute. For every wind of heaven had sunk To that aerial lute. The ponderous banners, closed and shrunk, Down from their listless lances hung, The windless plumes were feebly flung. With lifted foot, the listening steed. Did scarcely fret the fern. And the challenger on his charmed steed Sat statue-like and stern. Till mixed with martial trumiiet-strainj The herald's voice arose again. Proclaiming that Amboise's lord Dared by the trial of the sword. The bravest knights of France, to prove Their fairer dame or truer love, — And ere the brazen blast had died, That strange sweet singing voice replied. So wild that every heart did keei^ Its pulse to time tlie cadence deep : THE BROKEN CHAIN. 123 IX. " Where tlie purple swords are swiftest, ' And the rage of death unreigned. Lord of battle, though thou liftest Crest unstooped, and shield unstained. Vain before thy footsteps fail, Useless spear and rended mail. Shuddering from thy glance and blow, Earth's best armies sink like snow ; Know thou this ; unmatched, unmet, Might hath children mightier yet. The chapel vaults are deadly damp. Their air is breathless all. The downy bats they clasp and cramp Their cold wings to tlie wall ; Tlie briglit-eyed eft, from cranny and cleft, Doth noiselessly pursue The twining light of the death-worms white, Tn the ])nol?; of the o;irt]i dow ; 124 THE BROKEN CHAIlsr. The downy bat, — the death-worm white, And the eft with its sable coil — They are company good for a sword ed knight. In his rest from the battle toil ; The sworded knight is sunk in rest. With the cross-hilt in his hand ; But his arms are folded o'er his breast As weak as ropes of sand. His eyes are dark, his sword of wrath Is impotent and dim ; Dark lord, iu this thy victor path, Eemember him." X, The sonnds sunk deeply, — and were gone. And for a time the quiet crowd Hung on the long dej)arting tone. Of wailing in the morning cloud, In spirit wondering and beguiled ; Then turned with steadfast gaze to learn What recked he, of such warning wild — Amboise's champion stern. THE BROKEN CHAIN. 125 But little to their sight betrayed The visor bars and plumage shade ; The nearest thought he smiled ; Yet more in bitterness than mirth, And held his eyes upon the earth With thoughtful gaze, half sad, half keen. As they would seek beneath the screen Of living turf and golden bloom, The secrets of its under tomb. XI. A moment more, with burning look, High in the air his plume he shook. And waved his lance as in disdain. And struck his charger with the rein. And loosed the sword-hilt to his grasp, And closed the visor's grisly clasp. And all expectant sate and still ; The herald blew his summons shrill. Keen answer rose from list and tent. For France had there her bravest sent. 126 THE BROKEN CHAIX. Witli hearts of steel, and eyes of flame. Full armed the knightly concourse came ; They came like storms of heaven set free. They came like surges of the sea, Eesistless, dark and dense. Like surges on a sable rock, They fell with their own fiery shock. Dashed into impotence. O'er each encounter's rush and gloom, Like meteor rose Amhoise's plume. As stubble to his calm career ; Crashed from his breast the splintered spear, Before his charge the war-horse reeled. And bowed the helm, and sunk the shield. And checked the heart, and failed the arm ; And still the herald's loud alarm Disturbed the short delay — On, chevaliers ! for fame, for love, — For these dark eyes that burn above The field of your affray ! THE BROKEK CHAIN. 127 XII. Six kniglits had fallen, tho last in death, — Deeply the challenger drew his breath. The field was hushed, — the wind that rocked His standard staff grew light and low. A seventh came not. He unlocked His visor clasp, and raised his brow To catch its coolness. Marvel not If it were pale with weariness, For fast that day his hand had wrought Its warrior work of victory ; Yet, one who loved him might have thought There was a trouble in his eye. And that it turned in some distress Unto the quiet sky. Indeed that sky was strangely still, And through the air unwonted chill Hung on the heat of noon ; Men spoke in whispers, and their words Came brokenly, as if the chords Of their hearts Averc out of tune ; 128 . THE BROKi:]Sr CHAIN. And deeper still, and yet more deep The coldness of that heavy sleep Came on the lulled air. And men saw In eyery glance, an answering awe Meeting their own with doubtful change Of expectation wild and strange. Dread marvel was it thus to feel The echoing earth, the trumpet-peal, The thundering hoof, the crashing steel, Cease to a pause so dead. They heard the aspens moaning shiver. And the low tinkling of the river Upon its pebble bed. The challenger's trump rang long and loud. And the light upon his standard proud Grew indistinct and dun ; The challenger's trump rang long and loud. And the shadow of a narrow cloud Came suddenly o'er the sun. THE BEOKEJT CHAIK. 1:^9 XIII. A narrow cloud of outline quaint. Much like a human hand ; And after it, with following faint, Came up a dull grey lengthening band Of small cloud billows, like sea sand. And then out of the gajis of blue. Left moveless in the sk}', there grew Long snaky knots of sable mist, Whicli counter winds did vex and twist. Knitted and loosed, and tossed and tore, I^ke passive weeds on that sandy shore ; And these seemed with their touch to infect Tlie sweet white upper clouds, and checked TJieir pacing on the heavenly floor. And quenched the light which was to them As blood and life, singing the while A fitful requiem,' Until the hues of each cloud isle Sank into one vast veil of dread. Coping the heaven as if with lead, 130 THE BROKEN CHAIK. With drag'd pale edges here and there, Through which the noon's transparent ghire Fell with a dusky red. And all the summer voices sank To let that darkness pass ; The weeds were quiet on the bank. The cricket in the grass ; The merry birds the buzzing flies, The leaves of many lips. Did make their songs a sacrifice Unto the noon eclipse. XIV. The challenger's trump rang long and loud — Hark ! as its notes decay ! Was it out of the earth — or up in the cloud ?- Or an echo far away ? Soft it came and none knew whence — Deep, melodious and intense. So lightly breathed, so wildly blown. Distant it seemed — yet everywhere Possessing all the infinite air — One quivering trumpet tone ! THE BROKEN CHAIN. 131 With slo"w increase of gathering sway, Louder along the wind it lay ; It shook the woods, it pressed the wave, t The guarding rocks through chasm and cave Eoared in their fierce reply. It rose, and o'er the lists at length Crashed into full tempestuous strength, Shook through its storm-tried turrets high Amboise's mountain home, And the broad thunder-vaulted sky Clanged like a brazen dome. »- XV. Unchanged, uncliilled in heart and eye ; Tlie challenger heard that dread reply ; His head was bowed upon his breast, And on the darkness in the west His glance dwelt patiently ; Out of that western gloom there came A small white vapor, shaped like flame, TJnscattering, and on constant wing ; Rode lonely, like a living thing, 132 THE BROKEN" CHAIJST. TJj)on its stormy j)ath ; it grew, And gathered as it onward drew-7- It paused above the lists, a roof Inwoven with a lightning woof Of undulating fire, whose trace. Like corjise-fire on a human face. Was mixed of light and death ; it sank Slowly ; the wild war-horses shrank Tame from the nearing flash ; their eyes Glared the blue terror back, it shone On the broad spears, like wavering wan Of unaccepted sacrifice. Down to the earth the smoke-cloud rolled — Pale shadowed through sulphurous fold, Banner and armor, spear and plume Gleamed like a vision of the tomb. One form alone was all of gloom — In deep and dusky arms arrayed. Changeless alike through flash and shade, Sudden within the barrier gate Behold, the Seventh champion sate ! THE BROKEX CHAIN. 133 He waved his hand — he stooped his lance— The challenger started from his trance ; He plunged his spur — he loosed his rein — A flash — a groan — a woman's cry — And up to the receiving sky The white cloud rose again ! . XVI. The white cloud rose— the wliite cloud fled- The peace of heaven returned in dew, ^nd soft and far the noontide shed Its holiness of blue. The rock, the earth, the wave, the brake Kcjoiced beneath that sweet succeeding ; No sun nor sound can warm or wake One liuman heart's unheeding. Stretched on the dark earth's bosom, cliill, Amboise's lord lay stark and still. Tlie licralds raise him, ])ut lo mark The last light leave his eyeballs dark— 134 THE BROKEX CHAIN. The last blood dwindle on his cheek — They turned ; a murmur wild and weak Passed on the air, in passion broken. The faint low sob of one in pain — " Lo ! the faith thou hast forgotten Binds thee with its broken chain ! " PART FIFTH. I. The mists, that mark the day's decline. Have cooled and lulled the purple air ; The bell, from Saint Cecilia's shrine. Hath tolled the evening hour of prayer ; With folded veil, and eyes that shed Faint rays along the stones they tread. And bosom stooped, and step subdued, Came forth that ancient sisterhood ; Each bearing on her lips along Part of the surge of a low song, — A Availing requiem, wildly mixed With suppliant cry, how weak to win. THE BROKEIsr CHAIN. 135 From home so far — from fate so fixed, A Spirit dead in sin ! Xet yearly must tliey meet, and pray For her who died — how long ago ? How long — 'twei'e only Love could know ; And she, ere her departing day. Had watched the last of Love's decay ; Had felt upon her fading cheek None but a stranger's sighs ; Had none but stranger souls to seek Her death-thoughts in her eyes ; Had none to guard her couch of clay. Or trim her funeral stone, Save those, ;who, when she passed away. Felt not the more alone. II. And years had seen that narrow spot Of death-sod levelled and forgot. Ere question came of record kept, Or how she died — or where she slept. 136 THE BROKEN CHAIIf. The night was wild, the moon was late — A lady sought the convent gate ; The midnight chill was on her breast. The dew was on her hair. And in her eye there was unrest, And on her brow despair ; She came to seek the face, she said. Of one dee]) injured. One by one The gentle sisters came, and shed The meekness of their looks upon Her troubled watch. " I know them not, I know them not," she murmured still : *^ Are then her face — her form forgot ? " " Alas ! we lose not when we will The thoughts of an accomplished ill ; The image of our love may fade, But what can quench a victim's shade ? III. *' She comes not yet. She will not come. I seek her chamber ; " and she rose THE BROKEN CHAIN. 137 With a quick start of grief, which some Would have restrained ; but tlie repose Of her pule brow rebuked them. " Back," She cried, "the path, — the place, — I know, — Follow me not — though broad and black The night lies on that lonely track. There moves forever by my side A darker spirit for my guide ; A broader curse — a wilder woe. Must gird my footsteps as_I go." lY. Sternly she spoke, and, shuddering, sought The cloister arches, marble-wrought. That send, through many a trembling shaft The deep wind's full, melodious draught. Round the low space of billowy turf Where funeral roses flash like surf. O'er those who share the convent grave. Laid each Ijeneath her own green wave. 138 THE BROKEN CHAIN. V. From stone to stone she passed, and spelt The letters with her fingers felt ; The stains of time are drooped across Those mouldering names, obscure with moss ; The hearts where once they deeply dwelt, With music's power to move and melt, Are stampless too — the fondest few Have scarcely kept a trace more true. VI. She paused at length beside a girth Of osiers overgrown and old ; And with her eyes fixed on the earth. Spoke slowly and from lijjs as cold As ever met the burial mould. VII. ''I have not come to ask for peace From thee, thou unforgiving clay ! The pangs that pass— the throbs that cease From such as thou, in their decay, THE BROKEN CHAIK. 131) Bequeath them that repose of wrath So dark of heart, so dull of car, That bloodless strength of sworded sloth, That shows not mercy, knows not fear, And keeps its death-smile of disdain Alike for pit\', as for pain.' But, galled by many a ghastly link, That bound and brought my soul to thee, I come to bid thy vengeance drink The wine of this my misery. Look on me as perchance the dead Qan look ; through soul and spirit spread Before thee ; go thou forth, and tread The lone fields of my life, and see -. \ Those dark large flocks of restless pangs They pasture, and the thoughts of thee. That sheplierd them, and teach their fangs To eat the green, and guide their feet To trample where the banks are sweet And judge betwixt us, which is best, ]\ry sleepless torture, or thy rest ; 140 THE BROKEN CHAIN. And which the worthier to be wept. The fate I caused, or that I kept. I tell thee, that my steps must stain With more than Ijlood, their j^ath of pain ; And I would fold my weary feet More gladly in thy winding sheet. And wrap my bosom in thy shroud. And dash thy dailvness on the crowd Of terrors in my sight, and sheathe Mine ears from their confusion loud. And cool my brain with c}i3ress wreath More gladly from its pulse of blood. Than ever bride with orange bud Clouded her moony brow. Alas ! This osier fence I must not pass. Wilt thou not thank me — that I dare To feel the beams and drink the breath That curse me out of Heaven, nor share The cup that quenches human care. The sacrament of death ; But jield thee this, thy living prey Of erring soul and tortured clay. y THE BROKEN CKAIN. 141 To feed thee, when thou com'st to keep Thy watch of wrath around my sleeji, Or turn the shafts of daylight dim, With faded breast and frozen limb ? VIII. 'Yet come, and be, as thou hast been, Companion ceaseless — not unseen. Though gloomed the veil of flesh between Mine eyes and thine, and fast and rife Around me flashed the forms of life : I knew them by their change — for one »I did not lose, I could not shun. Through laughing crowd, and lighted room, Through listed field, and battle's gloom. Through all the shapes and sounds that press The Path, or wake the "Wilderness ; E'en when He came, mine eyes to fill. Whom Love saw solitary still. For ever, shadowy hj my side, I heard thoc murmur, watched thoe glide ; But what shall now thy purpose bar ? The laughing crowd is scattered far. 142 THE BROKEN CHAIN. The lighted hall is left forlorn. The listed field is white with corn, And he, beneath whose voice and brow I could forget thee — is — as thou." IX. She spoke, she rose, and from that hour, The peasant groups that pause beside The chapel walls at eventide, To catch the notes of chord and song That unseen fingers form, and lips prolong, Have heard a voice of deeper power. Of wilder swell, and j^urer fall, More sad, more modulate, than all. It is not keen, it is not loud. But ever heard alone. As winds that touch on chords of cloud Across the heavenly zone. Then chiefly heard, when drooped and drowned In strength of sorrow, more than sound ; That low articulated rush Of swift, but secret passion, breaking THE BROKEN CHAIN 143 From sob to song, from gasp to gush ; Then failing to that deadly hush, That only knows the wilder waking — That deep, prolonged, and dream-like swell. So full that rose — so faint that fell. So sad — so tremulously clear — So checked with something worse than fear. Whose can they be ? Go, ask the midnight stars, that see The secrets of her sleepless cell. For none but God and they can tell ^ AVhat thoughts and deeds of darkened choice Gave horror to that burning voice — That voice, unheard save thus, imtaught The words of penitence or prayer ; The grey confessor knows it not ; The chapel echoes only bear Its burst and burthen of despair ; And pity's voice hath rude reply, From darkened brow and downcast eye. That quench the question, kind or rash, AVith rapid shade, and reddening flash ; 144 THE BROKEK CHAIN", Or, worse, with the regardless trance Of sealed ear, and sightless glance. That fearful glance, so large and bright. That dwells so long, with heed so light, When far within, its fancy lies. Nor movement marks, nor ray replies, Nor kindling daAvn, nor holy dew Eeward the words that soothe or sue. . X. Eestless she moves ; beneath her veil That writhing Ijrow is sunk and shaded ; Its touch is cold — its veins are pale — Its crown is lost — its lustre faded ; Yet lofty still, though scarcely bright. Its glory burns beneath the blight Of wasting thought, and withering crime. And curse of torture and of time ; Of pangs — of jjridc, endured — degraded — Of guilt unchecked, and grief unaided : Her sable hair is slightly braided. THE BJiOKEN CHAIN. 145 Warm, like south wiud, its foldings float Eoiind licr soft liands and marl)lc tliroat ; How passive these, how pulseless this. That love should lift, and life should warm ! Ah ! where tlie kindness, or the kiss. Can break their dead and drooping charm ! Perchance they were not always so : That breast liath sometimes movement decj), Timed like the sea that surges slow Where storms have trodden long ago ; And sometimes, from their listless sleep, Those hands are harsldy writhed and knit, As grasping what their frenzied fit Deemed peace to crush, or deatli to quit. And then the sisters shrink aside ; They know the words that others hear Of grace, or gloom — to charm or chide. Fall on her inattentive ear, Ah falls the snowflakc on the rock, 'I'hai feels no chill, anath, 176 THE TEARS OF PSAMMEIflTUS. Nor strength shall bide, nor madness fly The anger of their agony, For every eye, though sunk and dim, And every lip, in its last need. Hath looked and breathed a plague on him Whose pride they fell to feed. The dead remember well and long, And they are cold of heart and strong. They died, they cursed thee ; not in vain ! Along the river's reedy plain • Behold a troop, — a shadowy crowd — Of godlike spectres, j)ale and proud ; In concourse calm they move and meet, The desert billows at their feet. Heave like the sea when, deep distressed. The waters pant in their unrest. Robed in a whirl of pillared sand Avenging Ammon glides supreme ; * ■"■ Cambyses sent 59,000 men to burn the temple of the Egyptian Jove or Ammon. They plunged into the desert and were never heard of more. It was reported they were overwhelmed with sand. THE TEARS OF PSAMMEJSTITUS. 177 The red sun smoulders in his liand And round about his brows, the gleam. As of a broad and burning fold Of purple wind, is wrapt and rolled. * With failing frame and lingering tread, Stern Apis follows, wild and worn ; f The blood by mortal madness shed. Frozen on his white limbs anguish-torn. What soul can bear, what strength can brook The God-distress that fills his look ? The dreadful liglit of fixed disdain, The fainting wrath, the flashing pain Bright to decree or to confess Another's fate^ts own distress — -I * * The simoon is rendered visible by its purple tone of color. f The god Apis occasionally appeared in Egypt under the form of a liandsome bull. He imprudently visited his worshipjters immediately afti-r Cambyses had returned from Ethio[)ia with the loss of his army and reason. Cambyses heard of his appearance, and insisted on seeing him. The ofTiciating priests introduced Cambyses to the bull. The king looked with little respect on a deity whose divinity depended on tlie number of liairs in liis tail, drew his dagger, wounded Apis in the thigh, and scourged ail the priests. Apis died. Prom tlial time the insanity of Cambyses became evident, and he was subject to the violent and tortunng passions described in the succeeding lines. 178 THE TEARS OF PSAMMENITUS. A mingled passion and aj^peal. Dark to inflict and deep to feel. Who are these that flitting follow Indistinct and numberless ? As through the darkness, cold and hollow, Of some hopeless dream, there press Dim, delirious shapes that dress Their white limbs with folds of pain ; See the swift mysterious train — Forms of fixed, embodied feeling. Fixed, but in a fiery trance. Of wildering mien and lightning glance. Each its inward power revealing Through its quivering countenance ; Visible living agonies. Wild with everlasting motion. Memory with her dark dead eyes. Tortured thoughts that useless rise. Late remorse and vain devotion. Dreams of cruelty and crime, Unmoved by rage, untamed by time. THE TEAKS OF PSAMMEKITUS. 170 Of fierce design, and fell delaying. Quenched affection, strong despair Wan disease, and madness playing With her own pale hair. The last, how woeful and how wild ! Enrobed with no diviner dread Than that one smile, so sad, so mild. Worn by the human dead ; A spectre thing, whose pride of power Is vested in its j)ain Becoming dreadful in the hour •• When what it seems was slain. Bound with the chill that checks the sense. It moves in; spasm-like sj^ell : It walks in that dead impotence, How weak, how terrible ! Cambyses, when thy summoned hour Shall pause on Ecbatana's Tower, Though barbed with guilt, and swift, and fierce. Unnumbered pangs thy soul shall pierce 180 THE TEARS OF PSAMMEKITUS. The last, the worst thy heart can i^rove, Must be that brother's look of love ; * That look that once shone but to bless. Then changed, how mute, how merciless ! His blood shall bathe thy brow, his pain Shall bind thee with a burning chain, His arms shall drag, his wrath shall thrust Thy soul to death, thy throne to dust ; Thy memory darkened with disgrace. Thy kingdom wrested from thy race, f Condemned of God, accursed of men. Lord of my grief, remember then. The tears of him — who will not weep again. * Cambyses caused his brother Smerdis to be slain ; suspecting liim of designs on the throne. This deed he bitterly repented of on his death- bed, being convinced of the innocence of his brother. f Treacherously seized by Smerdis the Magus, afterwards attained by Darius Hystaspes, through the instrumentality of his groom. Cambyses died in the Syi'ian Ecbatana, of a wound accidentally received in the part of the thigh where he had wounded Apis. THE TWO PATHS. I. The paths of life are rudely laid Beneath the blaze of burning skies ; Level and cool, in cloistered shade, The cliurch's pavement lies. Along the sunless forest glade ►Its gnarK'd roots are coiled like crime, Where glows the grass with freshening blade, Tliine eyes may track the serpent slime ; lint there thy steps arc nnbctrayed, The serpent waits a surer time. The fires of earth are fiercely blent. Its suns arise with scorching glow ; Tlio church's light hath soft descent. And luics like God's own bow. 181 182 THE TWO PATHS. The brows of men are darkly bent. Their lips are wreathed with scorn and guile ; But pure, and pale, and innocent The looks that light the marble aisle — From angel eyes, in loye intent. And lips of everlasting smile, III. Lady, the fields of earth are wide. And tempt an infant's foot to stray : Oh ! lead thy loved one's steps aside. Where the white altar lights his way. Around his path shall glance and glide, A thousand shadows false and wild ; Oh ! lead him to that surer Guide, Than sire, serene, or mother mild. Whose childhood quelled the age of pride. Whose Godhead called the little child. IV. So when thy breast of love untold. That warmed his sleep of infancy. THE TWO PATHS. 183 Shall only make the marble cold. Beneath his aged knee ; From its steep throne of lieavenly gold Thy soul shall stoop to see His grief, that cannot be controlled. Turning to God from thee — Cleaving with prayer the cloudy fold. That veils the sanctuary. THE OLD WATEE-WHEEL. It lies beside the river ; wlierc its marge Is black witli many an old and oarless barge, And yeasty filth, and leafage wild and rank Stagnate and batten by the crumbling bank. Once, slow revolving by the industrious mill, It murmured, only on the Sabbath still ; And evening winds its pulse-like beating bore Down the soft vale, and by the winding shore. Sparkling around its orbed motion flew. With quick, fresh fall, the drops of dashing dew, Through noon-tide heat that gentle rain was flung. And verdant round the summer herbage sprung. Now dancing light and sounding motion cease. In these dark hours of cold continual peace ; 184 THE OLD watp:r-avheel. 185 Through its black bars the unbroken moonlight flows, And dry winds howl about its long rcijose ; And mouldering lichens creeji, atid mosses grey Cling round its arms, in gradual decay. Amidst the hum of men — which doth not suit That shadowy circle, motionless and mute. So, by the sleep of many a human heart. The crowd of men may bear their busy part, ^Where withered, or forgotten, or subdued. Its noisy passions have left solitude. Ah, little can they trace the hidden truth ! What waves have moved it in the vale of yoiitli ! And little can its broken chords avow IIow they once sounded. All is silent now. THE DEPARTED LIGHT. Thou know'st the ]Aace where purple rocks receive The deepened silence of the pausing stream ; And myrtles and white olives interweave Their cool grey shadows with the azure gleam Of noontide ; and pale temple columns cleave Those waves with shafts of light (as through a dream Of sorrow, pierced the memories of loved hours — Cold and fixed thoughts that will not paSs away) All chapleted with wreaths of marble flowers. Too calm to live, — too lovely to decay. And hills rise round, pyramidal and vast, Like tombs built of blue heaven, above the clay Of those who worshipi)ed here, whose steps have past To silence — leaving o'er the waters cast The light of their religion. There, at eve. That gentle dame would walk, when night-birds make 186 THE DEPARTED LIGHT. 187 The starry myrtle blossoms pant and heave Witli waves of ceaseless song ; she would awake The lulled air with her kindling thoughts, and leave Her voice's echo on the listening lake ; The quenched rays of her beauty v.ould deceive Its depths into quick Joy. Hill, wave, and brake Grew living as she moved : I did believe That thev were lovelv, onlv for her sake ; But now — she is not there — at least, the chill Hath passed upon her Avhich no sun shall break. Sti-anger, my feet must shun the lake and hill : — 8eel^ them, — but dream not they arc lovely still. AGONIA. I When our delight is desolate, And hojie is overthrown ; And when the hea,rt must hear the weight Of its own love alone ; And when the soul, whose thoughts are deep. Must guard them unrevealed, And feel that it is full, but keep That fullness calm and sealed ; When love's long glance is dark with pain — With none to meet or cheer ; And Avords of woe arc wild in vain For those who cannot hear ; 188 AGONI A. . 1 ^^ AVhen earth is dark and memory Pale in the lieaven above, — The lieart can bear to lose its joy, But not to cease to love. But what shall guide the choice within, Of guilt or agony, — AVhen to remember is to sin, And to forget — to die ! THE LAST SOXG OF AEION. iao Xiyeiai /lopoi' drjbuvo^ * * * TiVHVOV ShiT/V ruv vdrarov ueXipcxda Oavctdt/iiov yuoT. The circumstances which led to the introduction of Arion to his Dolphin are differently related by Herodotus and Lueian. Both agree that he was a miisician of the highest order, born at Methymna, in the island of Lesbos, and that he acquired fame and fortune at the court of Periander of Corinth. Herodotus affirms that he became desirous of seeing Italy and Sicily, and having made a considerable fortune in those countries, hired a Corinthian vessel to take him back to Corinth. When halfway over the gulf the mariners conceived the idea of seizing the money and throwing the musician into the sea. Arion started several objections, but finding that they were over- ruled, requested that he might be permitted to sing them a song. Permission being granted he wreathed himself and his hai-p with flowers, sang, says Lueian, in the sweetest way in the world, and leaped into the sea. The historian proceeds with less confidence to state that a dolphin carried him safe ashore. Lueian agrees with this account except in one particular : he makes no mention of the journey to Sicily, and sup- poses Arion to have been returning fi'om Corinth to his native Lesbos when the attack was made on him. I have taken him to Sicily with 190 ^ THE LAST SONG OF ARIOX. l*Jl Ilercxlotus, but prefer sending him straight home, lie is more inter- esting returning to his country than paying his respects at the court of Corinth. Look not upon me thus impatiently. Ye children of the deep ; My fingers fail, and tremble as they try To stir the silver sleep with song, Which underneath the surge ye sweep. These lulled and listless chords must keep — Alas — how long ! »■ II. The salt sea wind has touched my harp ; its tlnill Follows the i)assing plectrum, low and chdl, Woe for the wakened jjuLsu of Uccaifs breath, That injures these with silence — me with death. Oh wherefore stirred the wind on Pindu's chain, AVhen joyful nioniing called me to the main 'i riashed the keen oars — our caiivas nilc(l jind free. Shook like white (ire along the purple sea, 192 ■ THE LAST SOXG OF AEIOX. Fast from the lielm the shattering surges flew. Pale gleamed our path along their cloven blue ; And orient j)ath, wild wind and purple wave. Pointed and urged and guided to the grave. III. Ye winds ! by far Methymna's steep, I loved your voices long, And gave your spirits power to keep Wild syllal)lcs of song, When, folded in the crimson shade That veils Olymjius' cloud-like whiteness. The slumber of your life was laid In the lull of its own lightness. Poised on the voiceless ebb and flow Of the beamy-billowed summer snow, 8till at my call ye came — Through the thin Avreaths of undulating flame That panting in their heavenly home. With crimson shadows flush the foam Of Adramyttium, round the ravined hill. Awakened witli one deeivand living thrill. THE LAST SOXG OF ARION. l'.>;3 Yc came and with your steep descent, The liollow forests waved and bent. Their leaf-hilled echoes caught the winding call. Through incensed glade and rosy dell, Mixed with the breath-like pause and swell Of waters following in eternal fall. In azure waves, that just betray The music quivering in their spray Beneath its silent seven-fold arch of day lligli in i)ale precipices hung The lifeless rocks of rigid marble rung, ►AVaving tlie cedar crests along their brows sublime. Swift ocean heard beneath, and Hung llis tranced ynd trembling waves in measured time Along his golden sands with faintly falling chime. IV. Alas ! had ye forgot the joy I gave, That ye did hearken to my call this day ? Oil ! liad ve i^lumbcred — when your .'-■krp could save. I would have fed you wiih sweet sound f<»r avc. Now ye have risen to bear my silent soul away. 194 THE LAST SONG OF ARIOX. V. I heard ye murmur through the Etngen caves, When joyful dawn had touched the topmost dome, I saw ye light along the mountain waves Far to the east, your heacon fires of foam. And deemed ye rose to bear your weary minstrel home. Home ? it shall be that home indeed, Where tears attend and shadows lead The steps of man's return ; Home ! woe is me, no home I need. Except the urn. Behold — beyond these billows' flow, I see Methymna's mountains glow ; Long, long desired, their peaks of light Flash on my sickened soul and sight. And heart and eye almost possess Their vales of long lost pleasantness ; But eye and heart, before they greet That land, shall cease to burn and beat. I see, between the sea and land. The wiuding belt of golden sand ; ^ THE LAST SONG OF ARIOX. 195 But never may my footsteps rcacli The brightness of that Lesljian Ijeach, XJnless, with pale and listless liml), Stretched by the water's utmost brim, Naked, beneath my native sky, AVith bloodless brow, and darkened eye. An unregarded ghastly heap, For l)ird to tear and surge to sweei3. Too deadly calm — too coldly weak To reck of billow, or of beak. VI. My native isle ! When I have been Reft of my love, and far from thee IVIy dreams have traced, my soul hath seen Thy shadow on the sea. And waked in joy, but not to seek TJiy winding strand, or purple peak. For strand and peak had waned away Before the desolating day, On Acro-Corinth redly risen. 190 THE LAST SONG OF AEIOJST. Tliiit Ijurued above ^gina's bay, And laughed upon my j^alace prison. How soft on other eyes it shone. When light, and land, were all their own, I looked across tlie eastern brine, I knew tliat morning was not mine. VII. But thou* art near me now, dear isle ! And I can see the lightning smile By thy broad beacli, tliat flashes free Along the pale lips of the sea. Near, nearer, louder, breaking, beating. The billows fall with ceaseless shower ; It comes, — dear isle I — our hour of meeting- Oh God ! across the soft eyes of the hour Is thrown a black and blinding veil ; Its steps arc swift, its brow is jiale. Before its face, behold — there stoop, From their keen wings, a darkening troop Of forms like unto it— that fade Fur in unfatliomable shade. ^ THE LAST SONG OF ARION. 19? Confused, and limitless, and hollow, It comes, but there are none that follow, — It pauses, as they paused, but not Like them to pass away. For I must share its shadowy lot, And walk with it, where wide and grey, That caverned twilight chokes the day, And, underneath the horizon's starless line. Shall drink, like feeble dew, its life and mine. VIII. Farewell, sweet harp ! for lost and quenched Thy swift and sounding fire shall be ; And thes6* faint lips be mute and blenched. That once so fondly follovv' ed thee. Oh ! deep within the winding shell The slumbering passions haunt and dwell. As memories of its ocean toml) Still gush within its murmuring gloom ; But closed the lips and faint the fingers Of fiery touch, and woven words. 198 THE LAST SOKG OF ARION. To rouse the flame that clings and lingers Along the loosened chords. Farewell ! thou silver-sounding lute, I must not wake thy wildness more, When I and thou lie dead, and mute, Upon the hissing shore. IX. The sounds I summon fall and roll In waves of memory o'er my soul ; And there are words I should not hear. That murmur in my dying ear. Distant all, but full and clear. Like a child's footstej) in its fear, Falling in Colono's wood When the leaves are sere ; And waves of black, tumultuous blood Heave and gush about my heart. Each a deep and dismal mirror Flashing back its broken part Of visible, and changeless terror ; ^ THE LAST SOKG OF ARIOK. 199 And fiery foam-globes leap and shiver Along that crimson, living river ; / Its surge is hot, its banks are black, And weak, wild thoughts that once were bright, And dreams, and hopes of dead delight, Drift on its desolating track, And lie along its shore : Oh ! who shall give that brightness back. Or those lost hopps restore ? Or bid that light of dreams be shed On the glazed eye-balls of the dead ? That light "of dreams ! my soul hath cherished One dream too fondly, and too long, Hope — dread — desire — delight have perished, And every thought whose voice was strong To curb the heart to good or wrong ; But that sweet dream is with me still Like the shade of an eternal hill, Cast on a calm and narrow lake, 200 THE LAST SOXG OF ARION". That hatli no room excejDt for it — and heaven : It dotli not leave me, nor forsake ; And often with my soul liath striven To quench or calm its worst distress, Its silent sense of loneliness. And must it leave me now ? Alas ! dear lady, where my steps must tread, What veils the echo or the glow That word can leave, or smile can shed, Among the soundless, lifeless dead ? Soft o'er my brain the lulling dew shall fall. While I sleep on, beneath the heavy sea, Coldly, — I shall not hear though tliou shouldst call. Deeply, — I shall not dream, — not e'en of tliee. XI. And when my thoughts to peace depart Beneath the unpeaceful foam. Wilt thou remember him, whose Iieart Hath ceased to be thy home ? Nor bid thy breast its love subdue For one no longer fond nor true ; -v THE LAST SONG OF ARION. 20] Thine ears have heard a treacherous tale, My words were false, — my faith was frail. I,feel the grasjo of death's Avhite hand Laid heavy on my brow. And from the brain those fingers brand, The chords of memory droj) like sand. And faint in muffled marmurs die. The passionate word, the fond rejily, Tlie deep redoubled vow. Oh ! dear Ismene flushed and bright. Although thy beauty burn, •" It cannot wake to love's delight The crumbling ashes quenched and wliite. Nor pierce tlie apathy of night Within the marble urn : Let others wear tiie chains I wore. And worship at the unhonored shrine — For me, the chain is strong no more, No more the voice divine : Go forth, and look on those that live. And rube thee with the love they give. But tliink no more of mine ; 202 THE LAST SOKG OF ARIOK. Or think of all that j^ass tliee by, With heedless heart and unveiled eye. That none can love thee less than I. XII. Farewell ; but do not grieve ; thy pain Would seek me where I sleep, Thy tears would pierce like rushing rain. The stillness of the deep. Eemember, if thou wilt, but do not weep. Farewell, beloved hills, and native isle. Farewell to earth's delight to heaven's smile ; Farewell to sounding air, to purple sea ; Farewell to light, — to life, — to love, — to thee. THE HILLS OF CARRARA.* I. Amidst a vale of springing leaves, Where spreads the vine its wandering root. And cumbrous fall the autumnal sheaves. And olives shed their sable fruit, And gentle Avinds, and waters never mute. Make of young boughs and pebbles pure One universal lute, And bright birds, through the myrtle copse obscure. Pierce with quick notes, and plumage dipped in dew. The silence and the shade of each lulled avenue. >♦. II. Far in the depths of voiceless skies. Where calm and cold the stars are strewed. " The mountains of Carrara, from which nearly all the marble now used in sculpture is derived, form by far the finest piece of hill scenery I know in Italy. They rise out of valleys of exquisite richness, being themselves singularly desolate, magnificent in form and noble in eleva- tion, but without forests on their flanks and without one Ijlade of grass on their summits. 203 204 THE HILLS OF CAERAEA. The peaks of jjale Carrara rise. Nor sound of storm, nor wliirhvind rude, Can break their chill of marble solitude ; The crimson lightnings round their crest May hold their fiery feud — They hear not, nor reply ; their chasmed rest No flowret decks, nor herbage green, nor breath Of moving thing can change their atmosphere of death. III. But far beneath, in folded sleep. Faint forms of heavenly life are laid, With pale brows and soft eyes, that keep Sweet peace of unawakened shade. Whose wreathed limbs, in robes of rock arrayed. Fall like white waves on human thought. In fitful dreams displayed ; Deep through their secret homes of shimber sought. They rise immortal, children of the day, Gleaming with godlike forms on earth, and her decay. THE HILLS OF CARRARA. 205 ■» IV. Yes, where the bud hatli briglitest germ, And broad the golden blossoms glow. There glides the snake and works the worm And black the earth is laid below. All ! think not tliou the souls of men to know ; By outward smiles in wildncss worn ; The words that jest at woe Spring not less lightly, though the heart be torn, The mocking heart, that scarcely dares confess Even to itself, the strength of its own bitterness. ^N'or deem that they Avhose words are cold. Whose brows are dark, have hearts of steel. The couchant strength, untraccd, untold. Of thoughts tliey keep and throbs they feel. May need an answering music to unseal, Who knows what waves may stir the silent sea, Beneath the low appeal From distant shores, of winds unfelt by thee ? What sounds may wake within the Avinding shell, Responsive to the charm ul those who toncli it well ! THE BATTLE OF MONTENOTTE. My patent of nobility " (said Napoleon) "dates from the Battle of Montenotte." Slow lifts the night her starry host Above the mountain chain That guards the grey Ligurian coast, And lights the Lombard plain ; That plain, that softening on the sight Lies blue beneath the balm of night. With lapse of rivers lulled, that glide In lustre broad of living tide. Or pause for hours of peace beside The shores they double, and divide. To feed with heaven's reverted hue The clustered vine's expanding blue : 206 THE BATTLE OF MONTEXOTTE. 207 With crystal flow, for evermore, Tlicy lave a blood-polluted shore ; Ah ! not the snows, whose wreaths renew Their radiant depth with stainless dew. Can bid their banks be pure, or Ijless The guilty land witli holiness. 11. In stormy waves, whose wrath can reach • The rocks that back the tojimost beach, The midnight sea falls wild and deep Around Savona's marble steep. And Voltri's crescent bay. Wliat fiery lines are these, that flash Where -fierce the breakers curl and crash. And fastest flies the spray ? No moon has risen to mark the night. Nor such the flukes of phos])lior light That wake along the southern wave, By Baia^'s clifl' and Capri's cave, Until tlic dawn of day : 208 THE BATTLE OF MONTENOTTE. The phosplior flame is soft and green Beneath the hollow surges seen ; But these are djred with dusky red Far on the fitful surface shed ; And evermore, their glance between. The mountain gust is deeply stirred • With low vibration, felt, and heard, "Which winds and leaves confuse, in vain, It gathers through their maze again, Eedoubling round the rocks it smote, Till falls in fear the night-bird's note. And every sound beside is still. But plash of torrent from the hill, And murmur by the branches made That bend above its bright cascade. III. Hark, hark ! the hollow Apennine Laughs in his heart afar ; Through all his vales he drinks like wine The deepening draught of war ; THE BATTLE OF MONTENOTTE. 209 For not with doubtful burst, or slow. That thunder shakes his breathless snow. But ceaseless rends, Avith rattling stroke. The veils of white volcano-smoke That o'er Legino's ridges rest. And writhe in Merla's vale i There lifts the Frank his triple crest, Crowned with its plumage pale, Though, clogged and dyed with stains of death. It scarce obeys the tempest's breath. And darker still, and deadlier jiress The war-clouds on its weariness. Far by the bright Bormida's banks The AustHan cheers his chosen ranks, In ponderous waves, that, where they check Rise o'er their own tumultuous Avreck, Recoiling — crashing — gatliering still In rage around that Island hill. Where stand the moveless Few — Few — fewer as the moments flit : 210 THE BATTLE OF MONTENOTTE. Though shaft and shell their columns sjilit As morning melts the dew, Though narrower yet their guarding grows, And ]iot the heujis of carnage close, In death's faint shade and fiery shock. They stand, one ridge of living rock. Which steel may rend, and wave may wear. And bolt may crush, and blast may tear. But none can strike from its abiding. The flood, the flash, the steel, may bear Perchance destruction — not despair. And deatli — but not dividing. What matter ? while their ground they keep, Though here a column — there an lieap — Though these in wrath — and those in sleep. If all are tJiei^e. IV. Charge, D'Argenteau ! Fast flies the night. The snows look wan with inward light : Cliarge, D'Argenteau ! Thy kingdom's power Wins not again this hope, nor liour : THE BATTLE OF MONTENOTTE. • 211 The force — the fate of France is thrown Behind those feeble shields, That ridge of death-defended stone "Were Avortli a thousand fields ! Tn vain — in vain ! Thy broad array Breaks on tlieir front of spears like spray Thine hour hath struck — the daAvning red Is o'er thy wavering standards shed ; A darker dye thy folds shall take Before its utmost beams can break. Out of its; Eastern fountains The river of day is drawn, And the shadows of the mountains March downward from Ihu dawn,- Thc shadows of tlic ancient hills Shortening as they go, Down beside the danciiiii: rills \^'r:irilv and slow. 212 THE BATTLE OF MONTENOTTE. The morning wind the mead hath kissed ; It leads in narrow lines The shadows of the silver mist. To pause among the pines. But where the sun is calm and hot. And where the wind hath j^eace. There is a shade that pausefch not. And a sound that doth not cease. The shade is like a sable river Broken with sparkles bright ; The sound is like dead leaves that shiver In the decay of night. VI. Together came with pulse-like beat The darkness, and the tread ; A motion calm — a murmur sweet. Yet deathful both, and dread ; Poised on the hill, a fringed shroud. It Avavered like the sea, Then clove itself, as doth a cloud. In sable columns three. ^ THE BATTLE OF MONTEKOTTE. 213 They fired no shot — they gave no sign, — They blew no battle peal, , But down they came, in deadly line. Like whirling bars of steel. As fades the forest from its place. Beneath the lava flood. The Austrian host, before their face. Was melted into blood : They moved, as moves the solemn night, With lulling, and release. Before them, all was fear and flight. Behind them, all was peace : Before them flashed the roaring glen With h^onet and brand ; Behind tliem lay the wrecks of men. Like sea-weed on the sand. VII. But still, along the cumbered heath, A vision strange and fair Did fill the eyes that failed in death. And darkened in despair ; 214 THE BATTLE OF MOISTTEKOTTE. Where blazed the battle wild and hot A youth, deep-eyed and jjale, Did move amidst the storm of shot. As the fire of God through hail. He moved, serene as spirits are, And dying eyes might see Above his head a crimson star Burning continually. T» ^ T» ^fi ^ ^ ^* VIII. With bended head, and breathless tread, The traveller tracks that silent shore. Oppressed with thoughts that seek the dead. And visions that restore. Or lightly trims his pausing bark. Where lies the ocean lulled and dark. Beneath the marble mounds that stay The strength of many a bending bay. And lace with silver lines the flov/ Of tideless waters to and fro. As drifts the breeze, or dies. ^ THE BATTLE OF MONTEXOTTE. 215 That scarce recalls its liglitness, left In many a j)uri)le-curtained cleft. Whence to the softly lighted skies Low flowers lift uji their dark blue eyes. To bring by fits the deep perfume Alternate, as the bending bloom Diffuses or denies. Above, the sloj)es of mountain shine, Where glows the citron, glides the vine. And breathes the myrtle wildly In-ight, And aloes lift their lamps of light, And ceaseless sunbeams clothe the calm Of orbcil 2)1 no and vaulted palm. Dark treesyithat sacred order keeji. And rise in temples o'er the steep — Eternal shrines, whose columned sliade Though Avinds may shake, and frosts may fade. And dateless years sul)due. Is softly l)uilded, ever new, By angel hands, and wears ilic di-ead And stilhiess of a sacred place. 216 THE BATTLE OF MONTENOTTE. A sadness of celestial grace, A shadow, God-inhabited. IX. And all is peace, around, above. The air all balm — the light all love. Enduring love, that burns and broods Serenely o'er these solitudes. Or pours at intervals a part Of Heaven upon the wanderer's heart. Whose subject sold and quiet thought Are open to be touched or taught, By mute address of bud and beam Of purple peak and silver stream — By sounds that fall at nature's choice. And things whose being is their voice. Innumerable tongues that teach The will and ways of God to men. In waves that beat the lonely beach. And winds that haunt the homeless glen, Where they, who ruled the rushing deep. The restless and the brave. THE BATTLE OF MONTENOTTE. 217 Have left along their native steep The ruin, and the grave. And he who gazes while the day Departs along the boundless bay. May find against its fading streak The shadow of a single peak. Seen only when the surges smile. And all the heaven is clear, That sad and solitary isle.* Where, cax)tive, from his red career, He sank — who shook the hemisphere, Then, -.turning from the hollow sea. May trace, across the crimsoned height That saw his earliest victory. The purple rainbow's resting light, And the last lines of storm that fade Within the peaceful evening-shade. * Elba. 218 THE BATTLE OF MONTEHOTTE. NOTES. Stanza 3. — Line 9. That o'er Legind's ridges rest. The Austrian centre, 10,000 strong, had been advanced to Monte- notte in order, if possible, to cut asunder the French force which was following the route of theCorniehe. It encountered at Montenotte, only Colonel Rarapon, at the head of 1,200 men, who, retiring to the redoubt at Monte Legino, defended it against the repeated attacks of the Aus- trians until nightfall— making his soldiers swear to conquer or die. The Austrian General Roccavina was severely wounded, and his suc- cessor, D'Argenteau, refused to continue the attack. Napoleon was lyhig at Savona, but set out after sunset with the divisions of Massena and Serruier, and occupied the heights at Montenotte. At daybreak the Imperialists found themselved surrounded on all sides, and were totally defeated, with the loss of t'.vo thousand prisoners, and above one thousand killed and wounded. [April 13, 179G.] This victory, the first gained by Napoleon, was the foundation of the success of the Italian campaign. Had Colonel Rampon been compelled to retire from IVIonte Legino, the fate of the world would probably have been changed. — Vide Alison, eh. 20. Stanza 7. — Line 6. WJiere lies the ocean lulled and darlc. The view given in the engraving, though not near the scene of the battle, is very characteristic of the general features of the coast. The ruins in the centre are the Chateau de Cornolet, near Mentoni ; the sharp dark promontory running out beyond, to the left, is the Capo St. Martin ; that beyond it is the promontory of IMonaco. Behind the THE BATTLE OF MONTENOTTE. 319 hills, on the right, lies the Bay of Nice and the point of Antibes. The dark hills in the extreme distance rise immediately above Frejus. Among them winds the magnificent Pass de L'Esterelle, which, for richness of southern forest scenery, and for general grace of mountain outline, suri)asses anything on the Corniche itself. Stanza 9. — Line 7. ITiat solitary isle. Elba is said to be visible from most of the elevated points of this coast. From the citadel of Genoa I have seen what was asserted to be Elba. I believe it to have been Corsica. A WALK IN CHAMOUNI. ; ToGETHEE on tlie valley, white and sweet, The dew and silence of the morning- lay : ' i Only the tread of my distnrbing feet ' f. Did break with printed shade and patient 1:)cat ; .i The crisped stillness of the meadow way ; ! i And frequent mountain waters, welling np In crystal gloom beneath some mouldering stone, i Curdled in many a flower-enamelled cuj) I Wliosc soft and pnrple border, scarcely blown. Budded beneath their touch, and trembled to their tone. j ■ The fringed branches of the swinging pines \ Closed o'er my path ; a darkness in the sky, i Tliat Ijarred its da])plcd vault witli rugged lineS;, And silver network,* — interwoven signs * The white mosses on the meleze, when the tree is very old, are sin- gularly beautiful, resembling fi*ost-work of silver. 220 A WALK IN CHAMOUNI. 221 Of dateless age and deathless infancy ; Then through their aisles a motion and a brightness Kindled and shook — the weight of shade they bore On their broad arms, Avas lifted by the lightness Of a soft, shuddering wind, and what they wore Of jewelled dew, was strewed about the forest floor. That thrill of gushing wind and glittering rain Onward amid the Avoodland hollows went. And bade l)y turns the drooping boughs complain O'er the brown earth, that drank in lightless stain The beauty of their burning ornament ; A^^ then the roar of an enormous river Came on the intermittent air uplifted. Broken with haste, I saw its sharp waves shiver. And its wild Aveiaht in Avhite disorder drifted. Where by its beaten shore the rocks lay heaped and ril'tiMl. But yet unshattered, from an azure arch* Came forth the nodding waters, wave l)y wave, * SourcQ^nf tlio Arvomii. 222 A WALK IN^ CHAMOUXI. In silyer lines of modulated marcli. Through a broad desert, which the frost-winds parch Like fire, and the resounding ice-falls pave With jjallid ruin — wastes of rock — that share Earth's calm and ocean's f ruitlessness. * — Undone The work of ages lies, — through whose despair Their swift procession dancing in the sun. The white and whirling wayes pass mocking one by one. And with their voice — unquiet melody — Is filled the hollow of their mighty portal. As shells are Avith remembrance of the sea ; So might the eternal ai'ch of Eden be With angels' Avail for tho.^^e whose crowns immortal The grave-dust dimmed in passing. There arc here. With azure Avings, and scymitars of fire, Forms as of Heaven, to guard the gate, and rear Their burning arms afar, — a boundless choir Beneath the sacred shafts of many a mountain spire. * Ttcxpd B/v' dAoi avpvyeroio. — IAIAa. A' A WALK IN CIIAMOUNI. 223 Countless as clouds, dome, i)rism, and pyramid Pierced through the mist of morning scarce withdrawn, Signing the gloom like beacon fires, half hid By storm — part quenched in billows — or forbid Their function by the fullness of the dawn : And melting mists and threads of jDurple rain Fretted the fair sky where the east was red. Gliding like ghosts along the voiceless plain, In rainl)ow hues around its coldness shed. Like thoughts of loving hearts that haunt about the dead. A«d over these, as pure as if the breath Of God had called them newly into light. Free from all stamp of sin, or shade of death, * With which the old creation travailcth. Rose the white mountains, througli the infinite Of the calm, concave heaven ; inly bright With lustre everlasting and intense. Serene and universal as the night, But yet more solemn with jxTvading sense Of tlio deep stillness of omni|KjLL'iice. 224 A WALK IK CHAMOUXI. Deep stillness ! for the throbs of human thought. Count not the lonely night that pauses here. And the white arch of morning fincleth not By chasm or al]!, a spirit, or a spot. Its call can waken, or its beams can cheer : There are no eyes to watch, no lips to meet Its messages with jirayer — no matin bell Touches the delicate air witli summons sweet ; — That smoke was of the avalanche ; * that knell Came from a tower of ice that into fragments fell. Ah ! why should that be comfortless — why cold. Which is so near to Heaven ? The lowly earth Out of the blackness of its charnel mould Feeds its fresh life, and lights its banks with gold ; But these proud summits, in eternal dearth. Whose solitudes nor mourning know, nor mirth, *The vapor or dust of dry snow which rises after the fall of a large avalanche, sometimes looks in the distance not unlike the smoke of a village. A WALK IN CHAMOUNI. 235 Eise passionless and pure, but all nnblest : Corruption — must it root the Ijrightest 1)irth ? And is the life that bears its fruitage best, One neither of supremacy nor rest ? I THE OLD SEAMAN. I. You ask me why mine eyes are bent So darkly on the sea^, While others watch the azure hills That lengthen on the lee. The azure hills — they soothe the sight That fails along the foam ; And those may hail their nearing height Who there have hope, or home. III. But I a loveless path have trod — A beaconless career ; My hope hath long been all with God, And all my home is — here. 226 THE OLD SEAMAN. 227 IV. The deep by day, the heaven by night, Eoll onward swift and dark ; Nor leave my soul the dove's delight. Of olive branch, or ark. V. For more than gale, or gulf, or sand, I've proved that there may be Worse treachery on the steadfast land. Than variable sea. VI. A danger worse than bay or beach — A falsehood more nnkind — The treachery of a governed speech. And an ungoverned mind. VII. The treachery of the deadly mart AVhere human souls are sold : TJie treacherv of the hollow liciirt That crumbles as we hoUI. 228 THE OLD SEAMAN. VIII. Those holy hills and quiet lakes — Ah ! wherefore should I find This weary fever-fit, that shakes Their image in my mind. IX. The memory of a streamlet's din, Through meadows daisy-drest — Another might be glad therein, And yet I cannot rest. X. I cannot rest unless it be Beneath the churchyard yew ; But God, I think, hath yet for me More earthly work to do. XI. And therefore with a quiet will, I breathe the ocean air, 1 And bless the voice that calls me still To wander and to bear. THE OLD SEAMA]Sr. 229 XII. Let others seek their native sod, Who there have hearts to cheer ; My soul hath long been given to God, And all my home is — here. THE ALPS. SEEN FEOM MAREK^GO. The glory of a cloud — without its wane ; The stillness of the earth — but not its gloom ; The loveliness of life — without its pain ; The i^eace — but not the hunger of the tomb .' Ye Pyramids of God ! around whose bases The sea foams noteless in his narrow cup ; And the unseen movements of the earth send up A murmur which your lulling snow effaces Like the deer's footstei)s. Thrones imperishable ! About Avhose adamantine steps the breath Of dying generations vanisheth. Less cognizable than clouds ; and dynasties, Less glorious and more feeble than the array Of your frail glaciers, unregarded rise. Totter and vanish. In the uncounted day, 230 TUIi ALPS. 231 When earth shall tremble as the trump unwraps Their sheets of slumber from the crumbling dead. And the quick, thirsty fire of judgment laps The loud sea from the hollow of his bed — Shall not your God spare you, to whom lie gave No share nor shadow of man's crime, or fate ; Nothing to render, nor to expiate ; Untainted by his life — untrusted with his grave ? WRITTEN AMONG THE BASSES ALPS. [It is not among mountain scenery that luiman intellect usually takes its finest temper, or receives its highest development; but it is at least there that we find a consistent energy of mind and body, compelled by severer character of agencies to be resisted and hardships to be endured; and it is there that we must seek for the last remnants of patriarchal simplicity and patriotic affection — the few rock fragments of manly character that are yet free from the liehenous stain of over- civilization. It must always, therefore, be with peculiar pain that we find, as in the district to which the following verses allude, the savagc- ness and seclusion of mountain life, without its force and faithfulness ; and all the indolence and sensuality of the most debased cities of Europe, without the polish to disguise, the temptation to excuse, or the softness of natural scenery to harmonize with them.] " Why stand ye here all the day idle ? " Have yon in hcayen no hope — on earth no care — No foe in hell — ye things of stye and stall, That congregate like flies, and make the air Eank with your fevered sloth — that hourly call The sun, which should your servant be, to bear Dread witness on you, with uncounted wane 233 WKITTEN AMONG THE BASSES ALPS. 233 And unregarded rays, froijupeak to peak Of piny-gnomoned mountain moved in vain ? Behold, the very shadows that ye seek For slumber, write along the wasted wall Your condemnation. Tlicy forget not, they. Their ordered function and determined fall, Nor useless perish. But yoio count your day By sins, and write your difference from clay In bonds you break and laws you disobey. God! who hast given the rocks their fortitude. The sap unto the forests, and their food •- And vigor to the busy tenantry Of happy soulless things that wait on Thee, Hast Thou no blessing where Thou gav'st Thy blood? Wilt Thou not make Thy fair creation whole ? Behold and visit this Thy vine for good — Breathe in this human dust its living soul. THE GLACIER The mountains hiive a jieace which none disturb — Tlic stars and clouds a course which none restrain — The wild sea-waves rejoice without a curb, And rest without a passion ; but the chain Of Death, upon tliis ghastly cliff and chasm Is broken evermore, to bind again, Nor lulls nor looses. Hark ! a voice of pain Suddenly silenced ; — a quick passing spasm. That startles rest, but grants not liberty, — A shudder, or a struggle, or a cry — And then sepulchral stillness. Look on us, God ! who hast given these hills their place of pride, If Death's captivity be sleepless thus, Eor those who sink to it unsanctified. . H' 2 Op UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. HE LIBRARY itSITY OF CALIFORl»^iA T rkC A AT/^ WT t:ict UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY fAClUT^^ AA 000 378 006 1 PR 5258 Al 1882